Even Heroes Fall
by draigonfire
Summary: As England is plunged into darkness and the good struggle to remain, two battle-weary women find their fates intertwined as they learn that the things they expect to happen and the things that do are rarely the same. DG, HHr
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Not mine, but the plot.  But I wish Draco was mine.

A/N Yeah I know, it's another story, but Masquerade is VERY close to its end and I thought I'd get a start on with a new fic.  This one is also posted at Schnoogle, and will most likely be uploaded more frequently there, but I'm also going to post this over here.  Anyways, it's not as fluffy as my previous long ones, but I like this one more than my previous two, so I really hope you'll stay with me.  I'll also post quicker since it's summer and whatnot.

Oh, right, and it's D/G, of course.

**Prologue**

England had changed.

The exuberant realm in which Ginny Weasley had grown up had now disappeared with the return of Voldemort. The streets were dirty and dank, the civilians writhing in daily fear, and the aurors of the wizarding world slowly diminishing, conquered by the dark side. She was but twenty when it all happened, just a young woman on the brink of making her own in the world and nowhere ready for the turmoil that would erupt afterwards.

The war wouldn't have really concerned Ginny, at least not at that point. War was the least of her concerns. She cared about finding a job, finding a boyfriend, and most importantly, finding a husband. Her world may have been turned upside down, yet for the most part things were still the same, ubiquitous routine she'd grown accustomed to. But then again, at the beginning it never really affected anyone.

Then people started dying. One by one they fell, supporters of the good, victim to the brutal ravagings of Voldemort's supporters. One by one, the customers of Ginny's quaint little tea shop dwindled into nothingness, and she realized that indeed, there was no way she could carry out a normal life anymore. She had tried, Merlin knew, and for a while telling herself that Albus Dumbledore would defeat the one true evil brought high hopes into those around her.

Until Dumbledore himself had been mercilessly slaughtered.

But Ginny Weasley was never one to give up. She didn't become paranoid like Ron. She didn't become weepy and tearful like Hermione. And she never became listless, not like her mother.

She became an auror.

Without another thought, Ginny closed down her business, tore away the adorable hand-painted sign she'd so lovingly hung out in front of the shop, and tossed off her apron. In that moment, she vowed to reek havoc on the man who had haunted her first year, the man who had killed the headmaster she'd so revered and respected. He would pay, and she would see to it.

Her seventh year at Hogwarts, Ginny had made head girl. She was extremely intelligent, keen and apt, never one to let emotions control her. Minerva McGonagall thought perhaps it was without the shadow of her brother and his friends that she'd truly been able to shine, but whatever the reason Ginny proved herself to be skillful, determined, and goal-oriented.

Of course, that same perspicacity brought Ginny to the high ranks of aurors. Within time, she was among the best of the best, la crème de la crème, so to say. There was nothing Agent Weasley couldn't do, no puzzle too challenging, no enemy too villianous. Well, she could never quite kill—something about the killing curse bothered her incessantly—but with her best friend Bridgette beside her on nearly every mission she never particularly needed to deal with that.

By the time she reached twenty-four, almost all of the death eaters had been captured. Perhaps the most satisfying perk for Ginny was seeing Lucius Malfoy thrown into Azkaban, where she was certain he would rot. Her brother George, whose good cheer and congeniality had been dulled by the blade of terror, found it caustically humorous to allow Lucius a diary in his damp prison cell.

But in all, it had been rather pyrrhic. Because at the end of the day, even knowing the fighting was soon to end could not bring back the victims of Voldemort's war. It could not repair the ties severed nor the broken hearts of mothers whose beloved sons fled to the dark side. And if Ginny had thought herself cold from the loss of Dumbledore, it was nothing compared the frigid chain of events, which had procured when Ron had been savagely slaughtered.

He was an optimal target, just on the edge of pushing Cornelius Fudge from his undeserved position as the Minister of Magic. He would've been the youngest to ever accept such a title, which only added to the loss. The murderer was never apprehended, as there really was no substantial proof, and in the most subtlest ways, therefore, the family blamed Hermione Granger; Ron's fiancée, the intelligent muggle-born that had won over Molly Weasley at the news of their engagement, was the last person to be ever sighted with him.

Nobody believed she had been In cahoots with the plotting of his death, of course, nor did the ministry look upon her with shame. But to the Weasleys, the family that had once welcomed her with open and eager arms, Hermione was a pariah. Perhaps they were scared of the link she had once forged, through that simple solitaire diamond on her fourth finger that she still wore daily without fail. Or perhaps in their effort to find the perpetrator, their sub-consciousness just wanted somebody to pinpoint.

Ginny seemed to be spurred by tragedy; the death of her closest brother left her most aggrieved and yet more determined than ever to bring Voldemort to his knees. She worked now with a reckless spirit, vengeful to say the least, and such disregard for the rules she had once so preciously abided brought the Ministry's most celebrated capture yet—not only had Hayden Laures one of the last death eaters, but he was also one of the most heinous and notorious of the lot.

They thought victory had been near. They thought without his supporters, Voldemort's power was sure to be useless.

But boy, where they ever wrong.

Because Voldemort had something up his sleeve unlike anything anyone had ever seen before. He had a powerful free-lance assassin whose mercilessness went unmatched by even the most evil of death eaters—and whose wealth and stealth made him impossible to implicate.

He had the Lord Draco Malfoy.

- End Prologue -


	2. The Beginning of the End

* * *

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N **Well here we go…the official first chapter of my third fic. Yes, I know, I did a huge evil in killling off Ron, but I hope you guys will stick through this fic anyhow because it's my favorite of the plot ideas I've had. And being that I want this one to be less fluffy and more concrete, it was kind of a necessary evil to keep things dark. But don't worry, I promise there'll be more than enough D/G love…er…hate. Masquerade-15, in case you're wondering, is infinitely close to being finished so just sit tight and I hope this one will suffice for now. Don't forget to leave a review!

Hugs to my darling VicVic, who did a wonderful job of editing this chapter.

Chapter 1. The Beginning of the End

It was winter, but as most knew, there was no distinction of seasons in the tropics. The white sands were toasted with sun, palm trees content to sway in light, slightly humid breezes and the people calm and tranquil, succumbing to the harmonical epitome of paradise with passive lethargy. Here, there was no war, no death and despair – just miles of sparkling ocean, glistening beach, and peace, both in body and mind.

Ginny Weasley was _not_ pacified.

Her margarita left untouched, she sat stonily under a worn straw umbrella, staring out into the vast depths with empty brown eyes. There was a time when she would've squealed at the prospect of relaxing in the Caribbean's finest muggle resort. There was a time when she would've given up nearly everything to revel in nature's most expressive beauty.

There was a time when she would've had her favorite brother to share the beauty with.

Vacation had lost its appeal long ago, yet she'd allowed Cornelius Fudge to placate her weary soul with promise of serenity in an all-expenses paid trip to the islands. Maybe she had been too tired to argue, or maybe it really had seemed an excellent idea at the time, but here she was, tanned and sunny but restless as ever. And it wasn't that she'd craved adventure, no, because Ginny was sick of the damned war, of fighting for the cause that never seemed to end.

Two young children that reminded her painfully of Fred and George scampered past, yelling in heavily American voices and playfully tossing sand at one another. Ginny watched them listlessly, remembering Voldemort's attack on the clueless muggles of sunny California and wondering, briefly, if they would live past the age of ten. She was not so bothered by massacre these days, and the hope that would've caused her to weep for such lost innocence empty, broken, and shattered. She didn't allow herself to contemplate life's sardonic twists anymore because, as she'd learnt all too well by now, there were way too many.

It hadn't been enough for Voldemort to deprive her of Dumbledore, and Ron, and Colin Creevy, who she'd faithfully dated her sixth and seventh years. She'd lost her family, the cheerful bunch who had once tilted her chin upwards in times of misery, who'd smiled with loving warmth in times of loneliness. Not in the same aspect as Ron and Colin, of course, but in the way that they were now strangers to her, embittered by war and soured by defeat. There was no optimism in the burrow, just decaying, lifeless souls.

And then, she had lost her two best friends – to each other. On the outside, Ginny was overjoyed for Harry and Bridgette's engagement, and a part of her truly was. They deserved happiness, really, they had worked and plodded through the same horrible messes she had, and nobody could bring a larger smile to Harry's face than Bridgette. But somewhere deep inside her, in that caustic void Voldemort had so congenially helped form, she knew their marriage would destroy the precious trio of aurors they had taken so long to build.

It was selfish, she knew. But with Ron's death and Hermione's depression, she had unwittingly emerged alongside Harry and Bridgette as few of England's finest, and that feeling of utter belonging had imminently pleased her. She had always been close with Bridgette – the lithe blonde had transferred from Beaubaxtons at the end of Ginny's fifth year. She was the very first person to truly accept Ginny for who she was, despite the countless rumors of her first-year fiasco circling around. Harry was a different story altogether, but she was honestly thankful for his friendship and hadn't minded when he began dating Bridgette.

She had known things would eventually change, but she couldn't help wishing they wouldn't. At their wedding, she forced an elated smile upon her face, deeply envious – though not of Harry but of their pure, blissful smiles, of the beauty which had emanated from Bridgette's simple white gown.

Of the hope, hope and faith and light, none of which was for Ginny. Never again would they venture into uncharted territory as a team of three friends.

Ginny tilted her face to the sun apathetically, closing her eyes and heaving a sigh. Her life was devoted to bringing Voldemort down – more than a fourth of it, to be exact. She was good – the Ministry and Fudge knew this, or they wouldn't have granted her leave for a week. "A week away from the wizarding world, cut off from all contact and immersed in muggles," Fudge himself had said. Yet the gratification that had once arisen from the capture of death eaters was slowly fading, as with each, Voldemort's power never vacillated significantly enough. Muggles still died, along with the most valiant of aurors, and in all Ginny didn't feel she deserved to be here, enjoying or attempting to enjoy Aruba.

_But I captured Hayden Laures,_ Ginny reminded herself.

She reached for her abandoned drink now, ignoring the disgusted look an elegant woman near her tossed as she threw her head back and downed the entire glass. The alcohol burned her throat fiercely, but Ginny didn't notice. Somehow, it wasn't enough.

Nothing ever was.

And when the grand snowy owl swooped down like the first dawn of bitter winter, she did not heed the gasps elicited from those nearby, only focused her hazel eyes on the single talon that clutched a small scrap of parchment. Just one scrap. But one too many.

She smoothed it with trembling fingers, staring blankly for an infinite moment at the words, two simple words blurred before her. The woman beside her watched with bated breath and unbidden curiosity, frozen in time, useless, unsuspecting. And Ginny let out a sharp, acerbic laugh, chilling even to her own ears. She laughed until the waves retreated and the sand was baked cool, until the beach emptied of life, and then turned towards the now-empty chair.

"She's gone," Ginny gasped in a strangled voice. It was then she realized that her vision was horribly blurred. It was then she realized that for the first time since Ron's death, she was crying.

* * *

The day they mourned for Bridgette Potter, it poured.

Like Ginny's mood, it was dark and dismal, fat gray drops of sweet rain drowning the earth as if the Gods were crying for her themselves. It seemed but sour irony that she should be buried on a day so unlike her bubbly, vivacious personality. The small bundle of roses in her hands were wilting fast, and from across her she saw Harry stare woodenly through raindrop-cluttered glasses, green eyes blank and dark with sorrow. She wondered, fleetingly, if he could possibly see through those foggy lenses – and then it came to her.

He didn't want to see.

_Oh, Bridgette, why?_

"Harry," Ginny whispered softly, sympathetically. Gently she reached for his hand, palms wet and cold. Her heart went out to him, standing so forlorn and desolate by himself, and she gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze. He did not look at her, only blinked rapidly before gratefully returning the gesture.

And there they stood, two lost figures in the relentless and miserable rain.

The gathered crowd began to depart. Mumbling to one another, they disassembled with sorrow as black-clad men lowered her corpse into the grown. There was no longer time, nor money, for luxuries like coffins, and the dirt, muddied thick and liquid, stained the pristine white sheets in which her body was enshrouded in an instant.

Pristine, as her wedding gown had been.

The men began to pile silt in the small concave they had dug.

Harry let out a sob.

"Harry," Ginny said placatingly, stepping close. "Harry, it's—it's okay."

"I don't…understand," Harry said after a pause. "My parents…Ron…Bridgette... why did he chose me? Why me?"

She chose to remain silent.

"I don't want this, Gin," he whispered pathetically. "I don't want the fame of Harry Potter. I don't want this damned scar, this life, this fate. _I don't want it_."

"I know," Ginny replied in a low, quiet voice.

"And I just don't know what _he_ wants," Harry went on, as if she had not spoken at all. "Why doesn't Voldemort kill me outright? Why this way? This slow, agonizing torture and Bridgette, oh Bridgette—"

"Shh," Ginny soothed, bringing her arms around him as he cried into the soft waves of her hair, tears mingling with rain. And she let her own tears come, salty to her lips as her fingers rubbed circles into the nape of his neck. Where rain stopped and tears began she could not distinguish, but the wet of their skin did not quite register in her mind.

"I loved her so much," Harry said brokenly against her ear. "I love her still."

They stayed in that oddly comforting embrace as the storm began to retreat. The sky remained, as ever, gray and rich with ominous clouds, and Harry whimpered in a manner Ginny had never before seen. "It'll be alright, Harry," she murmured.

"It won't," he whispered. "She's not coming back, you know. Death is—death is final." He pulled back to look into her eyes, wetness bringing shine to his inky lashes. "I'm just so mad and I don't know who to be mad at, I don't have any place to dump all this anger, that's the worst part."

"They don't know who killed her?" Ginny asked softly, eyes questioning.

Surprise flickered across his face. "They didn't tell you," Harry said slowly.

She shook her head. "There hasn't been time for that."

"There hasn't been time for anything but pain," was his bitter reply.

Running her fingers down his forearm, she flickered her eyes away from the raw emotion on his face. "I'm sorry," she told him, the only appropriate answer she could possibly draw. He had never been exceptionally tall, and it did not take much effort for her to press a light kiss to his cheek, as she had seen Hermione do countless times back at Hogwarts.

"I know," he answered, and began to say more—only instead, his attention was diverted to something behind her.

"What?" Ginny pressed, furrowing her eyebrows. She swung around to see a hooded figure standing tense and still. _Death eaters_ was her first thought, but upon closer scrutiny the well-fitted robes and delicate jewelry didn't quite suit the uniform of one prepared for battle.

The rain turned into a light drizzle.

"Viane," Harry said, a bit nervous but more mournful.

From under her wide umbrella, the woman – _Viane_, Ginny ran the name through her head – revealed her face. It was a stunning face, skin creamy like porcelein, eyes so deep a blue they could've been violet, and the most beautiful hair Ginny had ever seen, long and golden curls that pronounced her undoubtedly veela blood. She was both familiar and a stranger, thin lips set into a firm line while her white cheeks pinked rapidly. Ginny, with her drab funeral robes plastered to her body and red hair sticking around her face, had never felt plainer.

"Harry," Viane replied stiffly. She focused her gaze on Ginny. "Well, well. Ginevra Weasley. I didn't expect to see _you_ here."

"I'm sorry," Ginny forced a smile to her face. "I don't believe I know you."

"Viane DuPont," the blonde answered coolly.

Recognition lit Ginny's eyes. "DuPont," she said softly. "Bridgette's…"

"Sister," Harry supplied. "And my sister-in-law."

Viane tilted her chin at him, narrowing those formidable eyes and sending him a calculating stare. "Not now," she said in a flat, toneless voice. "Not anymore."

"Oh, Viane," began Harry.

"But you knew that already, didn't you?" Viane directed her malevolent glare towards Ginny, ignoring Harry altogether.

Ginny started. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You _know_ what I mean," Viane said. "Honestly, the impudence! To show your face, here and now, clinging onto Harry like some two-sickle whore."

"I beg your pardon?" Ginny paled, more confused than insulted, more hurt than indignant.

"Don't beg," Viane sneered. "It's most unbecoming."

"Well why wouldn't I be here?" Ginny demanded. "I'm her best friend."

"Oh sure," Viane scoffed. "Best friend you are. You know that Bridgette would still be alive for you? You know that she was killed on the misson _you_ were to go on? You should be dead, Weasley, not her. I shouldn't be at _her_ funeral, mourning _her_ death, not when it's supposed to be _you_."

"_Viane_—" Harry started sharply.

"You were in the tropics," Viane finished darkly. "You were tanning on a beach while a _pregnant _woman met her death."

All protest in Harry was lost then, and he glanced helplessly between his stunned friend and angry sister-in-law. "Pregnant?" he echoed in complete shock.

"She was pregnant?" Ginny whispered softly, utter horror upon her face.

Viane nodded. "Two lives, Weasley. Two Potters. But isn't that the way you wanted it?"

"_No!_" Ginny shouted desparately. "You don't understand – Bridgette was my _best friend_."

"Of course," said Viane. "And I suppose the fact that you're smitten with her husband has nothing to do with it."

"I am _not_," cried Ginny.

Viane took a meancing step closer. "You listen to me, and you listen good. I don't want to see your face around my sister's grave, or around her husband, ever again."

Casting Harry a pleading glance, Ginny protested in vain. "This isn't—Harry, tell her, please."

But he only stared blankly at her. "She was pregnant?" was all Harry could manage. "Pregnant?"

"That's right," Viane affirmed sorrowfully. "She was waiting for the right time to tell you, you know."

"Pregnant," repeated Harry. "I was going to be father."

Viane glared at Ginny, gently taking the befuddled man by the elbow. "Come with me," she crooned. "I have some things of hers you might want to see."

"Harry," Ginny tried one last time.

When he turned to look at her, she shrunk back, for his normally bright eyes were cold and hollow, in a way she had never before imagined possible. "Don't," he said in a strained voice. "Please."

And then, together, they disapparated.

The rain splattered its dying drops and Ginny shuddered, wet and alone in the dismal cemetery. Gathering her robes around her, she knelt in the slopping mud, tracing her fingers where the tombstone should've been. _She deserved better_, Ginny thought fiercely as tears threatened to come. _They all deserved better._

Liquid from the lasting storm, the black soil oozed between her fingers, lodged in the cracks of her long nails. There was a movement from behind her, movement which suggested that indeed, she was not alone. Turning her neck just slightly, Ginny saw a flash of black as somebody rested a hand on her shoulder.

"Terrible, isn't it?" came a soft, female voice.

_So familiar…_

"I remember a time," the voice continued, "When my situation was not so different from yours; shunned and desolate. Hopeless."

Ginny turned fully now, brown eyes wide, to see Hermione Granger looking down at her stoically. She had aged in the few short years since Ginny had last seen her, aged terribly. There were no laugh lines around her dull eyes, her hair pulled back neatly in a fashion which hinted to Ginny that never did she wear it down, never did she wear it the way Ron had so loved.

"Hermione," Ginny said, her mouth round with surprise. "How are you?"

She smiled, only it was not really a smile, and offered a hand to the younger woman. "How good can I be?" she shrugged when in embarrassment Ginny did not take it. "My parents are dead. The only man I have ever loved, dead. Those who love him also remain, of course, only I am dead to them. Same old, same old, I'd say."

Ginny flushed, despite the noncommittal tone of voice Hermione had used, and stood up slowly to face her. "I don't…" she murmured. "I never…I…I'm sorry."

"Don't be," replied Hermione. "Given the time and circumstances…well I didn't come here to berate you anyhow." She glanced around the grounds thoughtfully. "I actually wasn't planning to come at all. Odd, isn't it?"

"What?" Ginny asked warily.

"This," Hermione gestured wildly. "Harry Potter's wife dies, and I don't even come to the funeral. Harry fucking Potter, Ginevra."

Ginny blanched at the obscenity. "You used to never call me that."

Hermione squinted at her. "Yeah, well, there are a lot of things I used to never do. You can't pretend nothing has changed, you know. You can't pretend we're conversing as we would have five years ago, you can't pretend we aren't strangers now."

Staring at the ground, Ginny only coughed, as there was no adequate response to that. "So," she said after some time. "Why _did_ you come?"

"Truthfully speaking, it was business," Hermione answered frankly. "I've got a proposition for you."

Ginny raised an eyebrow. "What kind of proposition?" she asked with equal parts doubt and curiosity.

And then Hermione gave that smile-which-wasn't-really again. "A proposition not appropriate for this environment," was her matter-of-fact response. She reached inside her robes and removed a small white business card. "Here," she said, handing it to Ginny. "It's a muggle bar in southeast London. I trust you can go home and clean yourself up, and make it there by, say, five?"

Ginny nodded mutely.

"Good," Hermione said with a satisfactory grin.

It was until after she'd disapparated that Ginny realized the engagement ring on her fourth finger was not the one Ron had purchased.

_

* * *

_

_Callahan's_ was one of the few open muggle bars left in dark London. Ginny arrived at promptly 4:55, looking around at the curious men with some unease. Ordering a questionable pink liquid, she settled in the vinyl seat, her worn jeans thankfully appropriate garb, and waited.

"Your margarita," said the bartender after a few moments of apprehensive wait had passed. Ginny took the glass gratefully, glad to have something which would keep her preoccupied, and flashed him a weak smile. Bringing the wide glass to her face, she sniffed cautiously, and frowned when a fruity scent wafted to her nose.

"I wouldn't drink that if I were you," said Hermione from behind her.

Ginny spun around. "You're here."

The older woman took a seat beside her, not one bit incongruous with the setting as she ordered two glasses of water. "Wizards generally don't have a swell tolerance for muggle liquor," she explained. "It's not quite the same as the alcohol the magical world is accustomed to."

Ginny gave her a small, embarrassed grin. "I didn't know."

Hermione sent her a sidelong glance. "Without sounding too cynical," she said, "There's a lot of things you don't know."

Unsure of the proper response, Ginny took a deep gulp of her water. "Listen," she said uncomfortably. "I'm not sure why I came here, but I'm thinking things might blow smoother if we just cut to the chase."

Hermione studied her. "Fine," she agreed after a pregnant pause. "You know, I hesitated in selecting you for the job, considering our history, but you and I both know the ministry has no better auror."

"Thanks," Ginny said uncertainly.

"It's not a compliment," Hermione shrugged. "It's a fact." Before the other could respond, she slid out a series of photos.

Ginny glanced at the neat pile with bewilderment. "Muggle photographs?"

"There is a spell," Hermione said patiently, "A spell of the dark arts, of course, which can make you invisible to the camera. Only it doesn't seem to have the same effect on muggle cameras, we've discovered."

Ginny blinked.

"This man," Hermione went on, "is conceived to be responsible for several auror deaths."

"So why don't we throw him into Azkaban?" she wanted to know.

"It's not that simple," Hermione replied. "This man is extremely powerful, extremely wealthy, and as much as I hate to admit it—" she wrinkled her nose in distaste "—extremely intelligent. To prove him guilty is nearly impossible, and it drives me out of my mind because I have no doubt it's him."

A round 'o' of surprise formed on Ginny's lips.

"Go on," Hermione said, indicating the pictures. "Turn them over. Look at them. You might…recognize something."

Warily, Ginny flipped them over, furrowing her brows as she studied them with nervous care. The first few were blurry, a cloaked figure standing stiff outside a café. When she glanced at Hermione, the brunette was watching her, observantly, pensively, and so Ginny lowered her eyes once again and continued to scan the photographs.

In the last one, the same cloaked figure had turned towards the unseen camera, and in the hoary black of background two eyes stared piercingly at Ginny – two light, silver eyes like cold pools of mercury.

They were eyes Ginny would recognize anywhere, eyes she had loathed for quite a long time.

They were the eyes of Draco Malfoy, prince of Slytherin.

She snapped her head up, meeting Hermionie's leaden gaze with her mouth open in question. "Impossible," she whispered.

"My reaction precisely," Hermione responded.

Silence, at least to them.

"I thought you said we couldn't prove him guilty," Ginny said desperately. "So what use am I to you?"

"We can't," Hermione said, "Without an inside source investigating him."

"A spy."

She nodded.

In contemplation, Ginny fell quiet. "You don't mean to suggest…surely you aren't…" she found herself at a loss for words.

"It's really quite very easy," Hermione said, removing a thick envelope from her well-used bag. "Mr. Malfoy has opened up a position in his life you could fill."

All color drained from Ginny's face. "You aren't insinuating that I'm going to have to…_hit on him_?"

Hermione chuckled. "No, no," she reassured. "You will be paid by both ends for this job, I guarantee."

"Oh." There was an audible sigh of relief on Ginny's part.

"This here," Hermione went on, unfastening the envelope, "is a contract. It promises that upon completion of your task, you will receive 200 million galleons."

Both wary and confused, Ginny remarked, "But Hermione, I'm an auror. Why do I need a contract?"

"As of now," Hermione said, handing her a quill. "You're a freelancer. On this assignment, at least. See, the organization heading this operation is a secular branch of the Ministry. We work for them, but we have our own internal structure. And we're classified, highly classified."

Ginny glanced up from her perusal of the documents to take the quill. "You're part of the Freedom League?" she asked with great surprise.

A small smile played at her lips. "Well, don't tell me that you think I've been doing paperwork for the past years."

"No, no," Ginny amended. "But you know, congratulations are in order. The League is very elite, so I hear. Until now I'd not had solid proof of their existence, in fact."

"You hear right."

She signed the documents with flourish. "So what exactly will I be doing?" asked Ginny. "Cooking? Cleaning? Cooking _and_ cleaning?"

Hermione hesitated and averted her gaze. "Not quite. Mr. Malfoy is seeking a, um—" she winced "—companion."

Incredulity and disgust flickered in Ginny's eyes, and she glanced from the contract to Hermione's face repeatedly. "Is that a fancy word for prostitute?" she demanded.

"_No_!" Hermione sounded scandalized. "You'd just accompany him to formal events. A prize, a trophy, I guess."

Ginny fell silent. "I don't understand," she finally said. "It isn't as if Malfoy can't find women. As much as I hate him, you and I both saw the disgusting display of Slytherin girls after him at Hogwarts. Has he grown two heads since then?"

"Not quite," Hermione replied with a shrug, gathering the papers from Ginny. "I guess we're never going to understand Malfoy, are we? Let's just be thankful this opportunity has opened."

Ginny nodded, as she had not much mind to do anything else.

"Come to the East wing of the Ministry at seven sharp tomorrow morning," Hermione told her, checking her watch. "There's a door there which leads to the secret opening of where the Freedom League resides. We will further discuss your plans from there."

Again, Ginny nodded, and Hermione turned to leave.

"Hermione," she called, just as the other woman was about to exit.

When she spun around, however, the thoughts that had been flitting about Ginny's head suddenly dissipated, and she had no way of coherently phrasing all the questions she had prepared for her.

"You're not wearing Ron's ring anymore," Ginny blurted out. "You wore it for so long after he died—I thought—we all thought you'd never take it off."

A wry smile twisted Hermione's lips, and she looked for a moment ready to laugh. "Yes, well," she finally answered dryly, "Love can make us do funny things." Then, turning sharply on her heel, she disappeared into the dark night.

Ginny stared after her. "I suppose it can," she murmured, and downed the rest of her water.

- End Chapter 1-


	3. Familiar Faces

A/N Well, now that Masquerade has been fully wrapped up and put away, I can turn my full attention to EHF (and other things, of course). But yes, here's the 2nd chapter, and this time there's some actual D/G interaction. If Ginny doesn't seem like the Ginny from IS and M, keep in mind that this is a different backdrop – here we have bitter!Ginny and disheartened!Ginny. I will, however, try to keep all my characters as in character with the books as I can – I usually try to. I'd like to think this version of D and G is actually more realistic than my previouis stories, but I guess time can only be the judge of that. So read on, and don't forget to leave a review on your way out.

Huggles to my beta, Priscilla.

**Familiar Faces**

The East End of the Ministry of Magic was one that had been abandoned for years. Unlike the glass double doors which guarded the main entrance, this one gave no suggestion to any importance, and was but a rickety piece of wood bound with rusting nails. Ginny had passed by this wing countless times, but never had she stopped to mull over what was behind the door, and never had she imagined that just beyond her reach was the legendary organization Aurors whispered about.

She stopped now, unsure of Hermione's directions, and pulled open the door. Everything inside was dark, and by squinting her eyes she could just barely make out a stairwell, and a round hole at the top which she supposed served as a makeshift window. With a deep sigh of resignation, she slipped inside, letting the door shut loudly behind her, and proceeded up the creaking stairs with great doubt. The soles of her shoes tapped against the rotting wood with every step and echoed throughout the dark and narrow corridor.

When she'd finally reached the top, however, Ginny found herself looking at another door, this one made of heavy steel and barricaded with at least eight different crowbars. "Hello?" She shouted, pounding one the door hesitantly. The very sound of it resounded so loudly around her she all but jumped, and stared in bewilderment at the door for a long moment afterwards.

She fished around in her robes for her wand. _I couldn't possibly have gone to the wrong place_, she thought frantically, pointing it in the vicinity of the knob. "Alohamora!" she shouted, but nothing happened. Helpless, she stood back and stared at the firm lock with furrowed eyebrows, willing for something to happen.

And then it opened.

A man stood in the doorway, his tall frame dark in the shadows of where she was standing. She could not see his face from her vantage point but for the dark hair and sinister shadows dancing across his face, and two inky eyes that were all but glaring at her. "Hello, Miss Weasley," he said in a most familiar voice, "Having a little trouble, I see?"

He moved out into the small light then, and she saw who he was. Years had passed and time had worn its mark into his face, but there was no mistaking his identity. No, she was staring at none other than Hogwarts' caustic Potions professor, Severus Snape. _What the hell is he doing here?_

"Snape," Ginny swallowed. "Fancy seeing you here."

"I thought you were late," he twisted his lips into that familiar sneer. "But I guess you're just inept."

"I'd be but one minute late at this point," she defended, feeling anger involuntarily bubble within her.

"Yes," he agreed, opening the door wider and beckoning for her to enter, "But as an auror, you should know that every minute counts."

She did her best not to glare at him, wedging herself into the dark and narrow space as he turned and sauntered down the hall. They were now in a corridor, dank and dimly lit, and she fumbled to light her wand as they moved. "How can you see?" Ginny asked incredulusly, holding up her light to reveal damp stone walls.

He did not answer her for a moment, merely continuing his quick pace towards wherever they were headed, and she rose her voice a little. "How can you see?" she asked again.

No reply.

Thoroughly peeved, she smacked the heated end of her wand just barely against his robes as she'd seen Fred and George do countless times to their mother. Jumping, he whirled around as if to put out whatever flame she had caused, and soured when he saw there was none. "What the devil are you doing?" Snape raged. "You could've lit me on fire."

"Yes," Ginny glowered at him. "Pity I didn't. Now answer what I've been asking you from the offset, _Professor_: Why are you here?"

With as much dignity as he had left, Snape brushed his hands against his robes, turned sharply, and resumed walking. "I don't see why I wouldn't be here," he said after a few seconds of high-strung tension, his voice annoyed and gruff.

"Are you an escort?" she pressed.

It could've been a trick of light, but it seemed he chuckled. "No, no, Miss Weasley," Snape replied. "I'm far more than an escort; in fact, I happen to work here. That's why I know my way around."

_He worked here? Surely he wasn't a part of_… "The Freedom League?" she asked in surprise. "You work for the Freedom League?"

The smirk on his face was one she had seen for seven long years - full of haughty triumph and snide disdain. "Yes, Miss Weasley," he leered. "Hence why I'm here, as I've clearly already said, showing dimwits like yourself to the entrance."

She flushed a deep crimson. "I was told I was already at the entrance," she told him acidly. "Perhaps you Leaguers should give better instructions."

"I wouldn't push it," came his biting reply. "Very few who do not belong to the elite have ever been inside our offices. We have no room for those of common intelligence."

"I am most certainly _not_ of common intelligence," Ginny snapped. "I happen to be one of the finest aurors in the Wizarding community, I'll have you know. I've worked hard to get where I am, and I do a damn good job of-"

"Of protecting England?" he finished, and it unnerved her that he never once looked at her. "Yes, Miss Weasley, I can see with all this death and destruction that you are indeed doing a good job."

Her mouth spluttered open with speechless indignance, and then he had turned around, staring down at her as he always had with pure dislike upon his face. She saw in that moment that they were at yet another door which had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, this one steel like the first but radiating with an unearthly glow. His hand was upon the knob; a key already inserted inside, and her eyes widened upon realization that all this had occurred while she was speaking.

"Welcome," Snape said crisply, "to the Freedom League."

And then he pushed it open, and everything became white, then black.

* * *

She awoke to blinding white, the same white that had flashed before her eyes as she'd gone unconscious. To her alarm, Ginny found that not only was she alone in the room, but there was also no door. And but for the narrow white cot on which she was sitting, everything about her was utterly, terrifyingly empty, and white, so white. The gripping fear that she had gone to the wrong place seized her once more, and memories of what she could register flew through her mind - of Snape, of his malicious grin, of his bitter voice.

Sitting up, Ginny blinked, focusing in the brightness of her surroundings. She reached for her wand automatically; nearly died of panic when she found it was not in her robes. Distantly she recalled using her wand as a lamp, and found herself worrying she had left it there - wherever there was. Said thought led to the paranoid delusion that again, she'd been mislead, or kidnapped, or-what was she going to tell Hermione?

The wall opened. Or rather, a door in the wall that had been previously well concealed opened - she'd been wrong about the lack of exit, then. "Where am I?" Ginny began to demand as a robed figure stepped inside, the black of uniform painfully incongruous with the white of everything else. "I demand to know where I am."

"You're inside the Freedom League, of course," said a familiar voice, and Ginny gaped in shock to see Hermione, smiling placidly as if they'd just met for tea.

"Hermione?" Ginny cried, scrambling off the cot. "What's going on?"

"The Freedom League meets in an alternate dimension," Hermione said calmly. "Thus, we are guaranteed the utmost privacy and security from spies, traitors, what have you. As a stranger, you may only enter when in the presence and permission of the League's President-" she paused, as realization and disbelief dawned in Ginny's eyes "-that being Severus, of course."

"You work with Snape?" Ginny blurted out. "You _hate_ Snape!"

"Does she?" interjected an amused male voice, and then Snape was in the room. He sent Hermione an unreadable glance, raking those black eyes over her in a most indistinguishable manner - decisively not one Ginny had seen him use at Hogwarts. She had not grown much, and he was still greatly taller than her, lashes casting effeminate shadows across his face as he dropped his gaze to her choker. Reaching forward, Snape grasped the amber stone in one hand and asked, in a low tone which suggesting he was really not asking, "Do you, Hermione?"

She pulled away from him sharply, the necklace slipping out of his grip. "Things have changed," she said simply, choosing to address Ginny rather than Snape. "Years have passed since Hogwarts; I'd like to think we've grown up."

The pink tinge which flashed across Hermione's cheeks did not go unnoticed by any.

"If things have changed," Ginny started questioningly, stepping closer to Hermione, "Then why aren't you going in? Surely Malfoy doesn't carry the same haughty pureblood attitude?"

"Not all things change," came the calm answer. "You'd be surprised, Ginny, at the extent of his loathing for people like me. His estate is charmed in seventeen different ways to alert presence of one with lesser blood-" Hermione shrugged wryly "-and believe me, I've checked."

Ginny let out a heartless chuckle. "This must all be disappointing for you, Snape," she said, turning towards her glowering former professor. "I remember you had such high hopes for Malfoy. Always taking his side, always believing he would turn out to be something _good_. Don't you wish you'd been wiser? Don't you wish you hadn't wasted so much time?"

To his credit, he refused to lose his composure, despite the angry flashing of his eyes. "He was a boy, Miss Weasley," He replied acidly. "At such a young age, any impressionable child can be changed. What you don't and never will understand, however, is that even the best-intending teachers cannot reverse a lifetime of upbringing. All that I ever attempted to do was well thwarted every summer and winter holiday when he returned to Malfoy Manor, because despite that he respected me, nobody can replace family, even one as cold and demented as his."

"You should've known, then, that his future was black," she told him bitingly. "You should've known he would've turned out evil."

"I pitied him," Snape answered. "I both loved him as the son I never had and pitied him, and I thought - though I realize it was foolish of me - I thought I could do some positive in his world." He stopped, narrowing his eyes at her. "I would not, however, expect you to try to conceive what life was like for young Draco Malfoy;" he finished, "I would not expect you to have the empathy or kindness to do so."

She flushed at his harsh words. "No offense, Snape," Ginny said quietly, "But I've never quite looked at you as one to preach empathy or kindness."

Snape paused, glancing at Hermione once more. "Yes, well, I really didn't like you or your kind much at Hogwarts, did I? Can't say I do now, but as optimists say, there _is _a little bit of good buried within everyone, no matter how far you have to dig."

"You believe there's good in Malfoy?" scoffed Ginny.

He smiled - leered, really - curled the edges of his lips up triumphantly. "Actually, Miss Weasley, I was more thinking of you."

"_Severus_," Hermione hissed, the first time she'd spoken during their interlude.

"No, no," he waved her off. "I'm not particularly taken by Miss Weasley here-" she made a face at him "-but I insult in good nature. It would be uncharacteristic of me to be kind to her, just because she's freelancing for us."

Hermione let out a sharp breath, looking equally stressed and relieved. "I don't think we need anymore tension around here," she said after a long pause.

"Then I shall leave," Snape responded. "I have other matters to attend to, anyhow. I don't suppose you'll die from giving Miss Weasley her assignment details?"

"Not quite," she smiled.

He nodded, once to her and once to Ginny, before opening the door. On Ginny's part, it amazed her to no ends that they could simply _find_ the exit, so well camoflauged was it, but on later thought she supposed they must use the room constantly. "Will I be seeing you at six?" Severus inquired in a softer voice just before he stepped out.

There was a visible pinkness to Hermione's face again. "I-I can't. Thomas is coming home today."

Snape only made a small noise of acknowledgement, before nodding again, and disappearing through the door.

"Thomas?" Ginny asked, as soon as Hermione turned around.

"Thomas," Hermione affirmed. "Thomas Francis, my…fiancé."

A rush of unexplicable emotion surged through Ginny as she realized that in all these years, while she'd been living her own life, so had Hermione. And that most all, her life didn't incorporate any of the factors they had all believed to be tied forever at Hogwarts - that nobody who had once loved her, the Weasleys, Harry Potter, even so much as knew about her life, even so much as cared about it. "You're engaged?" She asked softly. "Is he…is he a Leaguer?"

Hermione smiled bitterly, shaking her head. "I have vowed to never again be romantically involved with someone who fights against Voldemort," she replied. "I have vowed to never give my heart to someone who might opt to…lose it."

"Ron did not _lose_ it," Ginny said fiercely. "He would've kept you by his side for eternity if he could've, and you damn well know it."

"I do," Hermione agreed. "Do you think I haven't wondered why he died and I didn't? Why we didn't both die, and spare each other the pain? I know what your family thinks, I know what the public thinks, I know there are those who wish I had died and not he, and let me tell you Ginny Weasley, I would've rather died a thousand times than witness the man I loved with my very soul die in my arms. I would rather die a thousand times now than have to remember him dying in my arms." She paused to catch her breath. " I have never loved anyone as much as I loved Ron, and I never will again," she finished softly, "but that does not mean I cannot love. Ron has no use for my love now, no matter the magnitude."

"I'm not trying to accuse you of wrongdoing," Ginny said finally, quieted by the tirade. "You have every right to move on with your life, and I'm sorry if I've given you the impression that I feel otherwise, but I loved Ron too, you know."

Hermione closed her eyes. "I know."

They stood in a comfortable silence for a moment, forged together by the memory of a lost one, and simply _thought_ and missed him, both thinking of different times but the same person.

"We should get going," Hermione said after a while. "Your assignment awaits."

Ginny nodded.

Hermione strode to the wall - where there was, apparently, another entrance - and flicked her wand towards a spot Ginny could not see. Immediately, a safe appeared, which, when opened, revealed an assortment of curious objects Ginny vaguely remembered from her years at the burrow when her father had worked to collect muggle artifacts.

"Malfoy has the greatest security system possible around his estate," Hermione explained, handing them to the younger woman one by one. "But what he fails to safeguard against are the simplest muggle spying devices."

Ginny took them slowly, eyes wide. "I recognize these," she said in awe. "Father used to bring them home, and Mum would always yell at him. This-this is a recorder, isn't it?'

With a small, impressed smile, Hermione nodded. "Yet another reason why we chose you," she grinned. "Not as much retraining necessary."

"And this," Ginny held up a small black box. "What's this?"

"A camera," Hermione said. "You can record Malfoy's every move."

"And you'll be watching it?" Ginny inquired, realization dawning upon her face.

Hermione sighed. "Not quite. See, Malfoy's estate disallows interference in air waves, and so to monitor his actions from the League offices would set off some sort of alarm in his mansion. You're going to have to set these up around his house, and when your time is up, retrieve them."

"Then I'll bring them to you, and you'll go over the tapes," Ginny concluded.

Hermione nodded again. "Brilliant."

"I'll say." Ginny flicked her fingers over the small cameras, a smile tugging at her lips.

There was a slight waver of hesitation in Hermione's voice as she watched her. "Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked finally. "You'll be in for a long time, with no contact with us whatsoever. If you compromise your identity, or if he somehow finds out that you're linked to this organization…well death would be the best you'd be able to expect."

"I'm sure," Ginny said firmly. "I have nothing else to do, nothing else to live for."

"That's not true," Hermione shook her head. "You find life in the oddest of places…trust me."

Ginny stared at her with observant eyes, remembering the bright smile which had once lit her face, the smile she had not seen for years now. "How did it come to this, Hermione?" she asked softly. "How did we come to this? How did our world come to this?"

Hermione had no answer for her this time.

* * *

Malfoy Manor was located in a thicket of woods, set on acres of sprawling green lawn and sprinkled with little luxuries as ponds and fountains and lined on the East side by a glistening blue lake. Really, it was one of the most beautiful places Ginny had ever seen, and she felt herself souring with the knowledge that someone as foul as Malfoy inhabited it.

She made her way across the rich grasses, towards the enormous mansion which rose out against a pale blue sky and towered ominously. As the entire estate was, the doors loomed dark and tall in front of her, two brass serpents snarling at her as she smoothed sweaty palms across her dress. "Here I go," she muttered under her breath, and gingerly touched a hand to the door knockers. Jumping as a loud noise resounded about her, she glanced around fearfully, half expecting somebody to leap at her and arrest her for the spy she truly was.

Instead, however, the massive door opened, and a small house elf peered up at her. "Yes?"

Ginny regained her composure. "I'm here to see Mal-the Lord Malfoy."

The house elf scanned peering eyes at her, taking in her shaking hands and plain clothes. "For what reason?"

"The job," Ginny replied as calmly as possible. "I'm applying for the job."

Nodding gravely, the house elf turned at opened the door just wide enough for Ginny to slip inside her. "Follow Rosie," she commanded, and scampered down the hall.

Ginny stopped, awestruck. If she had thought Malfoy Manor beautiful from the outside, she had no idea what she was in for. Two grand, curving stairs stood before her, covered with the thickest of red carpet, and the empty, domed hall was sheathed with an array of stained glass which cast colorful shadows that danced about her. Truly, she thought breathlessly, she had never seen how well the other half lived.

"Follow Rosie," the house elf chimed once more, and then Ginny tore her eyes away from drinking in the exquisite home, grudgingly making her way after the elf.

Rosie stopped at one of the doors just left of the hall, pausing outside and nodding to Ginny. "Master is in there," she whispered, and pointed to where just beyond the door, a huge study lay.

"Thank you," Ginny started to say, but the house elf had already disappeared.

With a confused shrug, she stepped up to the room, peering inside for a glimpse of the infamous Draco Malfoy. Seated at his desk, the enormous windows which loomed behind him cast an ethereal light upon him, a light which made him seem entirely different from the snide little boy she had remembered, and Ginny felt her breath hitch.

He was really not as menacing as the rumors had made him out to be, eyes focused on his writing in great concentration and an errant strand of white-gold hair falling across his forehead. He had that air about him, that famed disposition which made her less than ready to simply _approach _him. It was not something she could characterize, nor something she had seen before, but it was something akin to bottled intimidation. Without saying a word, without even so much as glancing at her, she felt excluded from the powerful and elite world he belonged to - not that she wished to take part in it, of course. __

Ginny stood just outside the doorway for a few long minutes, head tilted unconsciously as she watched him scratch the quill furiously across thick parchment, and wondering when the same bullying prat from Hogwarts had gone and grown into one of England's most powerful and feared men.

"If you're planning to come in, you might as well do it now," he drawled without looking up, without ever pausing in his work.

After a moment's brief hesitation, she did, stepping just within the shadows of the large and empty room, twisting her hands uncertainly into one another. He did not seem any closer to addressing her, nor did he seem curious as to who she was, so finally she felt obliged to interrupt the silence with a meek, unsure "Hello Malfoy."

He glanced up then, locking eyes with her, and she saw the same silvery eyes that had stared at her in Hermione's photographs, full of cloudy observation and cold indifference. She wondered if he recognized her at all from Hogwarts - knowing that they'd all changed quite a bit but still slightly fearful - and nearly let out her bated breath as he returned to his letter, or whatever it was he was writing. "I assume you're one of the applicants," Draco commented.

She nodded, and then remembered that he wasn't looking at her. "Yes," Ginny cleared her throat.

"And I assume you know that I'm only taking interviews between nine and one," he said in that unnervingly emotionless voice.

"Well I know," she faltered, because she really _didn't_ know, "I just-I thought it would be refreshing for you to have something out of the norm."

Draco frowned, pausing in his work to eye her with a certain level of curiosity. "What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't," she replied. "But it's Ginny."

"Ginny," he repeated, running the name over the tip of his tongue as if to test it out. "I think I've heard that name somewhere before."

"You've probably heard most names somewhere before," Ginny said a bit more acidly than she should've. "As most names are not unique to one person alone."

She expected him to sneer at her, but instead he smiled. No, it really wasn't much of a smile - too smug to be a smile - but more of a smirk, which plainly suggested that he was amused by her. "Mmm," Draco agreed noncommittally, setting his quill down and drumming his long fingers across his desk. "You might be surprised to know, _Ginny_, that mothers with any grain of originality would find a name for their children that remains unique to them. It can be done easily with a name patent, you know."

A crimson flush bit her cheeks. "Not everyone can afford a name patent, you know," she said, matching his tone without missing a beat. "Nor does everyone feel the need to waste money on something so inane."

One of his slender gold eyebrows rose high up, and her heart skipped a beat. _Foolish, foolish, foolish_, she chided herself immediately. _You're going to lose this job before you even get it, and then what will you do, Ginny Weasley?_ But in all the worry and anxiety which overtook her as she awaited a response, she could not - would not - bring herself to apologize, or to make amends.

He stared at her with unfathomable eyes, seemingly taking her in and observing her as he would an object, raking them over her plain robes, her neat hair, her scrubbed and unelegant face. She felt in equal parts insulted and intrigued by his perusal, and wished to hell she could slap the smug detachment off his face. "I must ask, Ginny," he finally said, "as to why you are here. You don't seem a woman that lets others boss her around."

She squeezed her eyes shut, and then forced herself to meet his placid gaze. "No, I don't," she said as calmly as possible. "I'm not. I-" _I__ what? I need the money? No, Malfoys look down upon poverty_. "I'm looking for diversity in my life," she blurted out for lack of better things to say, and that eyebrow flew even higher.

"Diversity," he echoed skeptically.

Ginny nodded rapidly. "I won't submit to your every beck and call, nor will I fawn and faint in your presence," she told him firmly, hoping to the Gods that he was one of those men who found assertiveness attractive. "But I promise that I'm not just a dull rack that agrees with everything you say. I promise that I can keep things interesting around here if you choose me."

He continued to stare at her, in that unreadable way which caused such agony and frustration to bubble in her stomach. There was a look of intense concentration upon his face, a brief glimmer of contemplation in his eyes, and finally he nodded. "Okay," Draco told her. "You're in."

She blinked in disbelief. "I beg your pardon? I'm-I'm in?"

Motioning for her to come closer, Draco leafed through the pile of parchments on his desk and handed a few thick sheets to her. "Sign the contract," he said without emotion, gesturing towards a long and elegant quill, "And you're in for eight weeks. Keep heed that these are not eight weeks during which you can cut and run, just because things aren't-" he paused, almost taking pleasure in his words "-_interesting_ enough for you. Keep heed that this contract binds with the most powerful kinds of magic."

Her mouth dry, she signed her name numbly where he pointed, making sure that her last name was illegible but for the first letter and feeling overwhelmed at the quick success of her task.

"Ginny W, is it?" He said when she'd finished, scanning his eyes over the wet ink.

"Worthington," she lied quickly. "Ginny Worthington."

For a moment, Ginny was sure he saw through her lie, was sure he could see to the core that she was just a Weasley, the Weasleys he had loathed for so long when he was younger. But Draco only nodded again, blowing over where she had signed to expedite the drying process. "I think you'll go by Ginny," he remarked off-handedly, as if she had no choice in the matter. "It suits you more than calling you Miss Worthington."

"Okay," was all she could say.

With a small, pleased smirk that caused unease to boil in her stomach, he placed the contract in a folder and in his drawer. "By signing this contract, you are mine," he said coolly. "You will do as I say, whether you like it or not."

"But-" she swallowed. Things had not been this way a moment ago - he had been a lot less cold, a lot less commanding, a lot less as his reputation had declared him to be.

"You'll gather your things by nightfall and move into the guest wing of my mansion," he continued. "Don't bother with formal wear, as that will all be provided for you."

"I thought-"

"_Do not_ interrupt me," he cut her off. "As I was saying-"

"-I will not stand for this," she exclaimed, ignoring him altogether. "Don't think you can treat me like your house elves, Malfoy, because then you are far mistaken."

"Think you're a fierce, independent woman do you?" He chuckled. "Let me tell you something, Ginny, women like you come a dime a dozen. I've seen your type. Determined not to let anyone boss them around, determined that they are their own bosses, well, I've broken women like you. It's a challenge, I agree, but-" he leaned down, so his words were tickling her ear "-the product is quite _rewarding_."

She gasped, jumping away. "I will never succumb to that, Malfoy," she spat, "so you can just stop dreaming right now."

He merely smiled at her, a cold, calculating smile. "Ginny Ginny Ginny," he said, shaking his head. "You don't understand, do you? You've signed the contract. And whether I admit that your spitfire comments are rather-" he searched for the right word "-refreshing, I do expect obediance of you. I do expect you to do whatever I will you to. And I do expect you to understand that you can't possibly not, because like I've said, the magic which binds our contract is very, _very_ strong." She let out an indignant noise, and he went on, "So if I were you, girl, I would just stop fighting and make things easier on myself. You'll find I'm really not that sadistic if I'm in a good mood."

They stared at each other, neither willing to back down. The silence was overwhelming, the implications of his words even moreso. _Eight weeks_, she told herself firmly, _that's all you have to do - you've signed a contract on both sides either way. _"Fine," she finally ground out, realizing she really had no other choice and wishing to hell she'd read over those contracts - both of them - more carefully. _What have I gotten myself into?_ She thought miserably as a triumphant smirk curled his lips.

Draco held out his hand then, expectantly, and she nearly faltered when she realized that she was expected to _shake_ it, as that meant she would have to touch him, and-she thrust her hand into his, putting an end to the torrents of thoughts flitting through her mind and feeling rather embarassed at how cool his felt opposed to her own, which was by now sweating profusely.

"One more thing," he said as their gazes and hands were locked onto one another, warm on cold, dark on light. "You will address me as 'my lord' at all times, is that clear?"

The words tasted bitter. "Yes, my lord."

_I've made a pact with the devil_, Ginny found herself thinking as he released her clammy hand from his light grip. _I've made a pact with the devil, and I've all but sold my soul to him._

There was no turning back anymore.

- End of Chapter 2 -


	4. Into the Dragon's Lair

A/N Yep, it's Chapter 3! School starts tomorrow, so updates will be…lesser so. This chapter has much more D/G interaction that the first, er, few. Yah, I realize the entire story has been more plot than romance so far, but that's just building up…the background info, oui? Anyways, it all sorta begins here. Also, this isn't going to be purely D/G just to let you know – Draco and Ginny, of course, but I'm also writing in Harry and Hermione. I'm normally indifferent to who Hermione ends up with, but after reading the Draco Trilogy (Cassie Claire, of course) – which, I might add, despite the good writing was a pain to get through with the D/Hr implications – I felt like expanding Hermione's character as I see her, especially in a situation like this. So…yeah, if you're not a Harry/Hermione fan, keep in mind that a) she was with Ron, but now he's dead and b) there's more D/G ahead.

**Edit:** I want to apologize for how incredibly long its taken me to write this...actually it really hasn't taken me long, because it's been done, but FFNet has been incredibly weird with its uploading. Everytime I uploaded the file, all the apostrophes and whatnot were replaced with funky little symbols and it DIDN'T GO AWAY. I emailed them and...well you know how that goes. Anyways I solved the problem by copy/pasting from word in the "QuikEdit" section but yeah. So apologies to you all.

Huggles go to **Vic **and **Robin**, my fellow D/Gers and partners in crime, **Vicky **aka **Faith Akiyama **for finally updating her D/G fanlisting, **Priscilla **my lovely-as-ever beta, and **Beth**, who is most definitely coming with me to Australia next year to stalk yummy and flexible men.

Oh, and don't forget to review!

**Into the Dragon's Lair**

Hermione Granger lived in a small, threadbare flat just East of the Ministry of Magic – nestled in a little wizarding district few knew about. The location of her home was known to Ginny only from the days directly preceding Ron's death, when her grief-stricken sister-in-law had insisted on moving out of the comfortable three-bedroom home she'd shared with Ron. At the time, they'd all been too shocked to really register that Ron was truly _gone_, and the entire family had willingly, if numbly, helped the young woman move.

Sometimes, especially during the period when Bridgette and Harry had been engaged, Ginny would visit the house Ron had been so excited to buy. She would sit just outside the fence, outside of view from the cheery family who now inhabited it, and imagine what her life would've turned out to be had Ron not died. She would spin stories of holiday and birthday feasts that never existed, and in her mind picture entering that home, seeing pictures decorate the chimney as a token of happiness, a small but infinitely important aberration from the dark and dismal world they all lived in.

Then, with a bottle of the Wizarding world's strongeset alcohol in hand, she would cry, sob really, wishing she could yell at Ron for leaving her, and wishing above all that he could be here for her to yell at.

She never stopped to realize that she wasn't the only one.

Suitcases floating behind her, Ginny knocked on Hermione's door now, eyes watering as the memories rushed back to her. She was accustomed to mixing work with play, as she'd been close with most she'd worked with, yet it was odd coming to Hermione's flat, waiting outside her door, and wondering if she would be an unwelcome surprise. "Coming," she heard a muffled voice say, and after a moment, Hermione appeared before her, looking slightly startled.

"Hello," Ginny said, a little uncertainly, and the elder woman blinked.

"Does this mean you're in?" Hermione asked, anticipation evident in her voice. "Already?"

Ginny nodded. "I've got until nightfall, and then I won't be out of Malfoy's reach for eight weeks."

"Jesus," Hermione breathed. "Are you—is this—would you like to come in?" She stepped back just enough to let Ginny and her floating luggage slip through the door, looking tense but relieved all in the same moment.

"Thank you," Ginny said once Hermione had closed the door and turned towards her. "You have no idea how stressed I am right now – I mean, I'm glad I took this job, but Malfoy really is a nasty little bugger and I've quite forgotten that."

Hermione couldn't help smiling softly at the rambling woman. "Yes, well, if things go well, that nasty little bugger will soon be behind bars." She paused. "Or better yet, dead."

"And I'll be nothing less than estatic that I helped put him there," agreed Ginny. "Merlin, you wouldn't believe the nerve of that bloke – he's making me address him as 'my Lord' at all times."

"Oiy, Ginny," Hermione winced, "I'm sorry. Would you like some tea?"

"Tea would be wonderful."

"So," Hermione asked as she floated into the kitchen and began clamoring amongs the pots and pans. "What's your alias?"

A blank look came over Ginny. "Alias?"

"Yeah," Hermione said, appearing in the doorway with a worried expression upon her face. "Your 'persona'. For instance, you could be um, Hallie, er, Halliwell, and an aspiring actress. Something of that sort."

"Well," Ginny said slowly, uneasily. "I told him my name was Ginny." One of Hermione's eyebrows rose in alarm, and she hastened to add, "But I said that my last name was Worthington and I'm pretty sure he believed me. Although, he did pause at my name, saying something about it sounding…familiar or something of the sort."

"That was not a good idea," said Hermione sternly, and handed her a teacup. "Do I need to remind you how dangerous it would be for you if he knew your true identity and intentions?"

"No," Ginny replied, sounding brusque and peeved as they took seats opposite one another on Hermione's worn sofa. "You and I both know the consequences of making mistakes." She paused now, letting her voice take on a softer tone. "It's just…though I may not be of the Freedom League, I do know what I'm doing."

"Really," smiled Hermione, and this time it was more light-hearted.

"Really," she confirmed, returning the smile.

There was a heavy silence then, but not entirely uncomfortable, as both women sipped from their tea and glanced around, unsure of what to say and whether anything was necessary to fill the gap in conversation at all. Nearby, a clock ticked loudly, and the sounds of children's voices could be heard from just outside the window. "You know," Hermione finally said. "It's still so odd. That so much darkness and destruction and turmoil can be going on in our world, but that these children can just…play. As if nothing has happened, as if nothing's going to."

"The blessings of being young and innocent, I suppose," Ginny supplied.

The other woman squinted towards the window, despite that her view was obstructed by dark brocade curtains. "Yes, well, sometimes I think…even if the world's going to end at the hands of Voldemort—" she gave a sad little half-smile "—at least the world as we know it, won't we still have the children? We'll always have those innocent and young children, and won't hope always live on?"

"I guess," said Ginny slowly.

"So," Hermione went on, "Why are we so worried then? Why does the plight or happenstance of a world enclosed in darkness scare us so much if there's still going to be light?"

"There will always be light," Ginny replied. "There always has been. I think it just depends on who you are…and what you do…to see that light."

This seemed to be answer sufficient for her, who paused in her thoughts and toyed absently with her teacup, a gleam of musing apparent in her half-lidded eyes. "I think you're right," Hermione sighed after a while. "I think I just have yet to find that light."

"Ditto," confessed Ginny.

"I'm not sure about Thomas," Hermione blurted out then. "We're not—the engagement—we—I—um, I'm thinking about breaking it off."

Ginny only stared at her with slightly shocked eyes, waiting as ever. "That was fast," she whispered. "I mean, just this morning—"

"Oh no," disagreed Hermione. "I've been thinking about it for forever now. We'd been engaged for…Merlin knows why, but maybe eight months or so? And Thomas, he always wanted the wedding to be sooner, he wanted to tie the knot or at least start planning, which, mind you, we've not even set a date. Or a range of dates. And I'd always told him that I wasn't planning because I didn't want a complicated wedding, and that was sufficient answer for him, because we loved each other—" she shook her head now "—or so I thought. I really thought I loved him, Ginny. But I've been thinking, oh I've been thinking for forever now and gods you don't know how much I've wanted to tell someone about this, but he's just, well, I just don't love him and I most certainly don't want to spend the rest of my life with him and I think maybe that's why I've been postponing everything."

She slumped in her chair, relieved and tired to have exonerated the burden from her chest, and Ginny merely blinked, absorbing it all. "And you haven't told anyone about this?" she asked cautiously.

"Well who would I tell?" Hermione said, and heaved another miserable sigh. "My close friends were always Harry and Ron. I never bothered to make more friends because they were always more than enough for me. But now, Ron, well—" she snorted "—like he could give me advice now, right? And Harry…I haven't talked to Harry since Ron died." When she paused once more, her eyes took on a wistful expression. "Little bugger always did like Ron more than me," she added softly, trying to sound light despite the pain evident in her voice. "I suppose it's a bloke sort of thing. Male bonding or what have you."

"I haven't talked to Harry either," confided Ginny. "Not since…"

"Bridgette?" she supplied easily, shaking her head sadly. "Yes, well, death tends to have that effect on us doesn't it?"

"Look, Hermione," Ginny said, twisting the hem of her skirt anxiously with one hand as she set down her cup. "The reason I came to see you is because, well, I thought I might let you know that about all that happened in the past between us…with my parents and my brother's death and the events afterwards, well…I know it's no consolation now, but I'm really truly sorry."

Hermione looked unfazed. "Honestly, Ginny, it doesn't matter anymore," she dismissed. "Life goes on. Takes a while, of course, but it goes on."

"But," Ginny protested, "What happened was…you see, we've never been close friends, have we?" Hermione shook her head. "At Hogwarts," Ginny continued, "I was always smitten with Harry and the three of you had your own plans and that was just fine because in a roundabout way, so did I, but in some inexplicable way I'm here in your apartment, and I feel like a stranger, and I wish…" she trailed off, searching for the right words. "I just wish things hadn't turned out this way," she finished, watching the other woman with searching eyes. "Does that make sense?"

"Sure," agreed Hermione. "But the fact of the matter is, Ginny, things _did_ turn out this way, and no matter how much we sit here and wish they hadn't, they did. So really, apologies aren't necessary – they won't do anything anyhow, and if you want, we can just move on from here. Start anew."

"I think I'd like that," Ginny smiled. "If we could be friends."

"Friends," said Hermione lightly. Then, setting her teacup down too, she leaned back against the cushions with a thoughtful expression. "You know, I wonder," she pondered, more to herself than anyone else, "If the people in our lifetime we meet might've turned out differently if we'd been born differently."

Ginny frowned in confusion.

"For instance," Hermione explained, "If I had been sorted into Ravenclaw and had never made friends with the likes of Ron and Harry, would I be in the Freedom League now? And if I had been born a year later, would you and I have been good friends at school? And if you had been born of upper class, would you be engaged to Malfoy now?"

At that last statement, Ginny wrinkled her nose and let out a short laugh. "That I doubt, Hermione," she grinned, conjuring memories of Malfoy's snide sneer and disdaining remarks from Hogwarts. "But you know, I think you would've been with Ron and Harry no matter what happened, no matter you were. I think there are some people in life you're destined to be with, and no matter where life starts you out, no matter how long it takes you, you'll end up finding them sometime during that course."

With that thought, the two women fell silent, looking at one another but not really _looking_, and thinking of that one they were destined to be with – Hermione wondering why she had lost him, and Ginny wondering when and if she would find him.

* * *

Two hours and three teacups later, Ginny stood before the wide gates of Malfoy Manor for the second time that day. The sky had darkened to a cloudy violet now, extinguishing rays of sun just barely visible from behind a sloping hill that curved around the estate. Her suitcases floating conspicuously behind her, she used sweaty palms to smooth back her hair and pull down her drab dress before pushing open one of the huge iron bars and strolling into the land that was sure to be her demise.

_You would think he'd have guarded the outer gates_, she thought darkly as she made her way towards the grand double doors. Then again, Malfoy probably had set millions of alarms around the doors, triggering reactions to intruders with the most high-tech of Wizarding technology that she would never be able to understand. Without meaning to, Ginny's hand tightened around one of the small black cameras in her pocket, and then she was at the front of the doors, squeezing her eyes shut as she knocked.

She waited a good few seconds, praying she hadn't gotten herself into something too over her head, but there came no house elf. In fact, there came no movement from within the house to even suggest a house elf. Frowning, Ginny jerked herself out of her dreading reverie and knocked again, louder this time.

"Hello?" she called to nobody in particular, and shook on the door handle.

The door slid open.

Tentatively, she took a step inside, heels clicking loudly against the floor. _Stop acting like a thief_, she scolded herself. _You're a guest in his house, and it's not your fault his house elves aren't working._ With that thought consoling her, she murmured the counter spell to sink her suitcases to the floor, and glanced around her, taking in the grandeur of his home once more. She stood for a few moments with a million lost thoughts whirring through her mind, wondering whether she should go find him, or, as she was tempted to do, start her perusal of his mansion.

Finally, Ginny decided on the latter, moving as quietly as she could towards an ominous-looking stairwell on her left, a curving set of marble which spiraled into a darkness that made her stomach dance with anticipation. This was the rush she'd once often felt on assignments with Bridgette and Harry, she thought as she descended them slowly, this was the uncertainty that she would escape alive and the testosterone of not knowing.

Now it was not so addicting as she'd remembered it to be. Lighting her wand, Ginny found herself at the bottom of the stairs, facing a long and dark hall lit with sparse, dying torches and lined with thick wooden doors. _Great_, she thought dryly, groping at the handles for one that wasn't locked. _Well there are plenty of doors – one of them has to be unlocked._

By the sixteenth door, she was exasperated and convinced that they were all locked, and that she'd might as well leave before wasting her time with the rest of the doors. Disappointment flooded through her, though she knew she'd have plenty of time to spy on Malfoy. She convinced herself that getting caught here would ruin the little trust she had built with the git – if one could even call it that – and hesitantly, she turned for the stairs, trying desparately not to feel sorry over the promising eeriness of the place. It was optimal for lurid fantasies and old wives' tales, the perfect place to harbor demons and ghouls and witches, she thought sadly, turning to leave.

Then, Ginny realized with a start that indeed, _she was a witch_.

Nearly laughing out loud in the dim hall, she removed her wand from her pocket and aimed it at one of the doors. "Alohamora," she whispered softly, grinning as she heard the familiar click. _I'm tired_, she reasoned with herself as she opened it cautiously and slipped inside, _I'm not thinking clearly, that's all._

Indeed, as she relit her wand in the damp and dark room, that rush flitted through her again, and she stared in the wonder and knowing that she had almost given up on _this_. The place was every bit as dank as she'd imagined, a dungeon of some sort surely, and everywhere there were little floating glass cases, open on one side and exhibiting some sort of instrument she'd never before seen.

Well, not all of them, she thought ruefully as she stopped by a case of silver handcuffs. Hoping they weren't rigged with some sort of alarm, she scooped them up gently, hefting the slight weight and cool metal in her hand and breathing a sigh of relief when no bells went off. _I wonder why Malfoy has these in a case_, she wondered, and then mental image of Malfoy as the Slytherin girls had rumored him to be materialized in her mind, and she shivered. Yet it was easy to imagine, him with some faceless blonde bimbo and…_And I bet he's had his share of stupid girls to do these sorts of repulsive things with_, she thought in revulsion, dropping them back with a clank. _As he'd probably have to drug them to make them go out with him in the first place…_

Then again, he wasn't particularly _horrible_ looking.

The thought went through her head before she could stop herself, and the image of him as she'd seen him earlier that day formed in her head, light and almost angelic against the bright rush of sun. No, he was actually rather…decent. She supposed that if she tried hard enough, she could understand the mass flocking of females to be in Malfoy's bed. And there was also, after all, she reasoned, the fact that he was disgustingly rich.

Shaking the thoughts from her mind, Ginny moved onto the next display case, where a long whip of thick leather lay demurely against the thick glass. Without thinking she reached for it, the handle warming to her touch and the material buttery soft. She involuntarily conjured up yet another image in her mind, and even in the darkness she felt her face heating up, felt a blush flaming through her. _Stop thinking about that_, she commanded herself angrily.

"Well, well, what have we here?" a low voice came at her right ear suddenly, and Ginny jumped, dropping her hold on the object and spinning around to see Draco Malfoy just inches above her, face set in a mixture of disdain and curiosity.

_He must have come in sometime when I was looking at the…how long has he been here? _"Malfoy," she breathed, straightening with as much dignity as she could muster and pretending valiantly they were not where they were. He raised an eyebrow at her knowingly, dangerously, and she coughed, correcting herself with a meek "I mean, my Lord."

"Better," was all he said, in that slow and silky tone of his. Taking a step back from her, Draco glanced around, as if just noticing their environment. "First day on the job," he remarked, "And you're already snooping."

She felt the tips of her ears flame in indignation. "I was not snooping," she exclaimed, though in truth she really had been. "There was nobody to answer the door, as I'd shown up on time as you'd asked—_commanded_, and honestly, if you didn't want me to see this part of the house you should've locked it." _Okay, you should've made sure I couldn't break the lock_, she amended in her mind.

If he could see through her lie, Draco didn't say anything. He only moved around her to glance at what had piqued her interest, his long black robe sweeping against the cool marble and his light but distinctive scent wafting to her nose as he brushed past her. _Like hazelnut and lemon – a bit of sweet with a lot of tang_, she found herself thinking. Picking up the whip by its long leather handle, he turned sharply, lips curved amusedly. "Thinking of games to play?" He smiled, only it really wasn't a smile because, as Ginny'd noted, Draco Malfoy didn't know how to smile. That odd quirk of his lips held no humor, was instead cold and lifeless, and chilled her to the bone.

Then again, he probably hadn't intended to invoke humor.

"Rich of you to say," she retorted. "Since it's obviously yours."

He raised one eyebrow once more, in that irritating show of smug disdain. "Actually," Draco disagreed, "This house is really very large. Many of these things are inherited."

"So you're telling me that this whip—" Ginny gestured disgustedly towards the object in question "—was used by your _father_?"

She failed to provoke him with that last insinuation, as he simply smirked at her. "I didn't say that," he replied, stroking a long finger along the handle, the smirk growing wider as she found herself shorter of breath. Then, suddenly, he was right next to her again, so close she could feel the warmth of his body radiating into hers.

_Funny, I thought he was cold-blooded._

"If you're a good girl," he whispered into her ear, "I'll give you a little demonstration of how to use—" And now he traced the whip up her abdomen "—this."

Ginny blanched at the contact, wrenching away from him and taking several stumbling steps backwards. "If you expect me to do _that_," she said furiously, glaring at him with her entire life's fury, "You are in for a sore mistake, Mal—_my Lord_." Somehow addressing him by such a title took the punch out of her anger, but she made up for it in spades as she crossed her arms and glowered at him in silence. When he said nothing, she felt her temper flare further, and added, "And it doesn't say that I have to—to—_do that_ with you, so you can't annul it."

"Do what?" he asked sweetly.

"You know!" she cried, making wild gestures with her hand and feeling stupider by the moment. "_That! _And absolutely I refuse, you know, you can't make me."

She expected anger to cross his face, but it didn't. In fact, there was nothing—no emotion whatsoever, not rage, not embarassment, not amusement. He was, as ever, blank and indifferent, staring at her for a few piercing moments with lidded silver eyes before setting the whip down back onto its stand. And then his lower lip curled up in what could've been a smirk or a leer, and he was sauntering past her as if nothing had occurred between them at all.

"My lord," she called as he had reached the door, unsure of why she'd stopped him. Surely he was upset, she thought angrily, surely she had to have elicted some reaction from him, surely he wasn't planning to make her… "I'm serious, you know," she blurted out.

He whirled around, ominously outlined in the frame of the door. "Why, Ginny," he drawled, and now she saw he was entertained—_entertained_—by her tirade. A flush stung her cheeks at the realization. "What makes you think that _I_ want _you_?"

And then he was gone, and she was all alone in the cold dungeon of Malfoy Manor, increasingly aggravated at the scene which had just passed and increasingly feeling unsure as to whether her being here was at all a good idea.

* * *

The bedchamber in which Ginny was staying was perhaps the most magnificent bedchamber she'd ever set foot in, let alone slept in. Enormous and adorned with wide, brocade-covered curtains, the entire room held an aura of grace and elegance. The bed itself was fit for a princess, framed with four imposing posts and covered in thick white down. Through the slanting door, she caught sight of the lavatory, the old-fashioned white bathtub which sprawled over gleaming marble and the shine of the gold handles. Never had she stayed in such a beautiful place, and never could she imagine that people like Malfoy stayed in such places their entire lives.

_No wonder he was so snooty about Hogwarts_, she thought as she trailed fingers absently over the rich wood of her bedframe.

"Is room to Miss Worthington's wishes?" The little house elf piped, and Ginny was jerked from her mental appreciation of Malfoy's riches, nodding speechlessly at him.

"Yes," she finally said, finding her voice. "Yes."

With a nod, the house elf gave a wan smile and disappeared down the winding corridors, shutting the door behind her quietly.

When she was sure there was nobody around, Ginny took a seat on the wide bed—_are beds supposed to be so soft?_—and removed another one of her tiny, black cameras from her coat pocket. "I suppose its useless to film myself," she thought aloud, scanning her eyes over the room for a place to plant the device. Nevertheless, if Malfoy happened to snoop in her things…

No, she had no use for filming her own quarters. Even if he did go through her belongings, the knowledge that he had would do no use to her until after the eight weeks were over, and would in no way incriminate him as a mastermind of murder, only an untrusting boss. _And untrusting he has a right to be_, she thought with a grimace. Things were certainly not going as she'd planned them to be, though in retrospect she shouldn't have expected a smooth sailing in the first place – this was Malfoy, for chrissakes, Malfoy who didn't give a damn about anyone but himself.

_How have I gotten myself into this?_ Ginny thought, glancing around her unfamiliar surroundings with a leaden heart. _I don't belong here. I shouldn't be here._ She longed for the earlier days suddenly, the days of Hogwarts and her mother's obscene sweaters – which she had long since stopped knitting – of Hogsmeade and butterbeers and Yule balls. She longed for the world of innocence, of happiness, of light and dizzy youth which had so quickly passed ans which she had failed to appreciate. In the hurry she had been to grow up, Ginny found, she had entirely missed the point of being young.

With a sigh, she began to unpack her suitcases, hanging the sparse clothes she had brought in the empty drawers and humming lightly to herself in the uneasy stillness of his home. She couldn't overcome the oddness that surrounded the manor, the eerie feeling of vacant hollowness, of darkness, perhaps. The place was beautiful, Ginny had thought so plenty of times in the course of the day, but never had she been anywhere so _cold_, so lacking warmth. She missed the coziness of the Burrow, and then gave another sigh when she remembered that said coziness was rare even among her own family these days.

_The world is deprived of cheer_, she thought ruefully as she changed into a long white nightgown and climbed underneath the covers. Blowing out the candle, she turned restlessly as bright beams of moonlight fell across her and illuminated the white of her sheets. Outside, the night sky was clear and littered with stars, despite the consistent wind which rattled branches against her windows.

One of those stars, she thought before drowsiness overtook her mind, was bound to be her brother, watching down on her. And then Ginny Weasley, first division Auror and freelancer for the Freedom League, was fast asleep in the heart of Draco Malfoy's lair.

End of Chapter 3


	5. Morning Madness

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N I know, I know, it's been a month or so. I sent it to my beta (Priscilla) but she never emailed me back (I suspect Gmail has been malfunctioning again) so…here's the unbeta-ed version. Anyways, I realize the previous chapters have not been heavy in D/G, but be glad because the D/Gness should be starting just about now. D. So read, hope you likey, and don't forget to review!

Morning Madness

_Everything was a brilliant white as it had been in the Freedom League, so white she couldn't tell whether it was merely the surroundings or whether she had gone blind. She was sitting alone in the corner, backed into hard plaster and shivering in a feeling of damp and cold isolation. And then the blindness was lifted and she could see once, could feel once more, and she was standing in a field of endless green. The sky was teeming with the cloudy violet of sunrise, yawning lazily over rolling hills as a light wind danced through the trees. Now it was not cold, but nor was it warm – there was, in fact, no temperature at all. The grass beneath her feet tickled her toes, the fabric of her nightgown tickled her calves, and in the far distance there was a man, and his back was to her. _

_ "Sir," she whispered, but was she truly whispering? Was she even speaking? The figure turned, illuminated by the ephemeral sun, and she gasped. "Colin?" _

_ And the blond hair disappeared suddenly, changed color and texture and shape until it was a bright, coppery red, flecked with gold just as hers was. Before her eyes the face changed, shifting length and conjuring freckles, and then the eyes that were looking at her were no longer blue but brown, and she stumbled closer._

_ "You're late, you know," he told her, and reached out a hand. "I've been waiting. I thought you'd never get here."_

_ "Where?" she asked frantically, and then she was so close to him._

_ He sighed. "I suppose you haven't. I suppose I'm wrong."_

_"I—I don't understand." And she moved to grasp his open hand, except then he was not so much her brother, growing taller and hair becoming a snowy, unmistakable white and she was confused, so confused, dropping her hand and choking back her disbelief._

_ Dumbledore smiled at her in that familiar way of his, sage but not unkind. "There are many things in this world you are not meant to understand," he told her, "Many things humans in general are not meant to understand. There are places you must be and people you must see…I will let you on your way now."_

_ "Wait," she cried desperately, reaching her hands to fist into his robes. "Wait!" But quick as he had appeared, he vanished, growing thinner before her until she found her fingers clasped upon insubstantial air, until she found that she was alone._

_And then the field was empty once more, empty and green and vast and infinite, stretching to bounds of the earth with no definitive end._

Ginny shot up in the bed, a thin sheen of perspiration about her forehead and her hair sticky against the nape of her neck. _Colin…Ron…Dumbledore…_Everything was a whirl in her mind as she regained her senses – sound first, then smell, then touch, and then sight. And then the events of the night before came rushing back to her like ice water on a muggy summer day, and she fell limp, clutching the thick satin comforter and feeling desolate.

As the world she was in settled around her, she let herself lean into the soft bed and close her eyes in exasperation. Not since she was fourteen had she truly dreamt in her sleep, and if she had they were meaningless interludes, snapshots really, that were always lost to her when morning came. Not since she was fourteen had any of her dreams affected her the way this one did.

_I swear its this place, this mansion_, she thought bitterly. _I swear it must be cursed. That's why I feel so goddamned tired right now._

Stretching her arms above her head, Ginny twisted her neck to glance at the clock beside her, and blinked fervently. "That's impossible," she said aloud, rubbing her eyes and staring once more.

Since she had graduated from Hogwarts, Ginny had been inclined to spend much of her morning in bed. First, she was her own boss, and finding that most of her customers stopped for tea in the afternoon she found no need to open it before noon. Then, after Ron's death, her position at the Ministry had thankfully condoned such behavior, as most investigation saw a lag in activity before evenings anyhow. Her natural body clock, thus, was set perpetually to sometime late after ten but before eleven – a hazy span of an hour which depended solely on her rest the night before.

So why the hell was she awake at eight in the morning, sodding dream or not?

Before she had time to pursue this thought, the door to her bed burst open. Ginny shrieked, burying herself beneath the blankets despite the ample nightgown she was wearing, and felt nothing short of foolish when one of the house-elves peeked in, eyes wide with fright.

"Is Miss Worthington all right?" squeaked the elf worriedly.

She nodded, feeling her thumping heart slow beneath her hand. "I was just surprised, that's all."

"Master sent Rosie here," said the elf. "Master is not happy."

"Master Draco Malfoy?" Ginny asked, making a face even as she said the name.

Rosie bobbed her head. "Rosie has no other master. Master is in the dining room, and he is not happy."

"It's eight," groused Ginny, pointing to the clock for emphasis. "There is no need to be in the dining room at eight."

Rosie trembled. "But Master is _eating_," she said primly. "And he is _alone_."

Fighting her urges to retort with a biting reply, Ginny reminded herself that it was not Rosie's fault her master was such an utter _toad_, and forced a smile upon her face. "Very well, Rosie. Tell Mast—tell Malfoy that I'll be there in a moment."

The house-elf sniffled, lifting her chin and exiting the room immediately.

"It's eight in the morning," Ginny complained to nobody in particular as she reached for her nightrobe and vehemently fastened the waistbelt. "I should not be up at eight in the morning." She made a half-hearted attempt at fixing her hair, but then decided she had no need to beautify for Draco Malfoy.

The mirror cringed at her. "You look absolutely fatigued!" it trilled.

"Oh, but Master can't eat alone," Ginny mimicked in a high-pitched voice, tightening her robe about her and grumpily storming out of her room, all the while feeling deprived of sleep and conjuring pleasant images of severely hurting Malfoy.

* * *

On the other side of town, Hermione Granger had been awake for two hours already. She was an early riser, always had been. Even before her Auror-training days, she'd risen in the wee hours to exercise and study, holding the belief that someone in her position should keep a well-regulated regime to, as she explained to her peers, stimulate her mind and body. Her roommates at university had grumbled at this, and so had Harry when he'd lived with her and Ron. But never Ron. He may have had a quick temper and fickle disposition, but with Hermione he'd been patient, so patient, and always supportive. Then again, he did have his own personal reasons for wanting her body to stay lithe and energetic.

She strolled along Hayworth Avenue, the small, bustling road on which she lived. Yes, England had changed, but there were still some things that wouldn't. People were still as willing to pretend that demise was not upon them, that Voldemort had no chance remotely of winning this war – a fact Hermione herself had believed in until recently. The smell of fresh-brewed tea and newly baked pies lingered in the air, owners of the various bakeries calling out for customers. She passed a group of young wizards – they couldn't have been more than twenty-two, and smiled wryly as they hooted and called at the pretty brunette witch behind her.

Once, she thought, catching reflection of her tired face and austere bun, she'd been partial to such frivolities. No, she'd never been particularly gorgeous, not in the manner of Cho Chang at least. And she'd never had a certainly individualistic appeal like Ginny's spitfire charm. But on the other hand, she wasn't ugly, but rather somewhere in between. Somewhere plain. Somewhere safe.

Hermione had never felt the need to feel pretty. Ron made her feel plenty wanted, and life was easy for her that way. She listened to her girlfriends complain incessantly about the difficulties of snagging a man in this day and age, and would look gratefully towards the small silver band around her finger, the "promise" ring Ron had bashfully given her in their seventh year. For the most part, she kept herself clean and tidy, along with some vanities such as lip salve and eye kohl. One thing she did love was her hair, which was rather odd considering what a loathsome feature she'd considered it at Hogwarts. She learned by now that straightening charms were too much of a hassle, and instead spent a good deal of time and money to keep it untangled and soft, and left it in enviable rolls around her shoulders.

There was no need for that anymore, though. She hadn't the energy to keep up appearances, hadn't the resolve to find someone who would smile shyly every time she wore a stunning dress. These days, keeping her face scrubbed clean and her hair tidily tucked away were as good as she'd get. Men could take it or leave it.

_Thomas had taken it._

The thought came into her mind before she could stop it, and Hermione winced.

She didn't want to think about Thomas Francis, not now. Not ever, if she could have her way, but Merlin knew that never happened. He materialized in her mind then, smiling in that mysterious way of his. He wasn't a remarkable man, not like Ron. A writer, Thomas had never been able to hold any one job down, flitting from flat to grubby flat and living on the articles and exposes he wrote for whatever small publications the war hadn't yet annihilated. Hermione had told him over and over again that nobody wanted to buy novels in such a time of despair, but he went on working stubbornly, insisting that his weren't any ordinary novels.

Unlike Ron, however, Thomas was charming. Well, that wasn't exactly fair, because Ron was charming in his own way, especially to her. But Thomas had the classic sort of appeal that few women could resist – the rugged build of someone who worked hard for his body, delightfully big blue eyes fringed with lashes so long they were nearly effeminate, and a gorgeous smile, the type of smile which tilted at one corner and showed a row of gleaming white teeth and really made all the women melt. Thomas was the sort of man she'd never imagined she'd be with, the sort of man who dated tall and leggy models with thick foreign accents and pert silicone breasts.

They didn't get on as well as she had with Ron. Hermione hadn't expected they would, but then again she didn't know what to expect seeing as Ron was the only man she'd ever been with until Thomas – excluding, of course, the occasional awkward fumble with Viktor Krum back at Hogwarts. He was sweet and kind and distant all at the same time, as she'd heard men to be, and when he'd proposed not three months later she'd been ecstatic that she hadn't lost her touch, that she wouldn't die a spinster. He wasn't Ron, but he was handsome, decent, and knew about fifty different positions in bed, and most importantly, _he_ wanted _her_.

She had never considered the fact that she didn't love him. That she never had.

It was too late for regrets, anyhow. There was nothing she could do about it outside of mulling over her mistakes, and, as she'd told Ginny, she knew the right thing to do was to break it off.

_Ginny_. Hermione was never close with Ginny Weasley, even though they were sisters-in-law. She'd always liked the girl, that was true, but there was so much difference between them, in age, in character, in belief. They were friends before Ron's death, but only in the loosely affiliated way that suggested to outsiders it was more a matter of convenience than anything.

Yet here was Ginny, back in her life, and for the first time Hermione felt a pang of what could've been genuine caring for the girl. She felt the tinge that maybe, just maybe, they had something in common, something that went beyond Ron's death. And for the first time since Ron's death, she felt that she wasn't alone in this desolate world.

This thought in her head, Hermione ducked inside a small flower market, preoccupied with thinking about Ginny and the sort of bouquet she should purchase for a pregnant Freedom Leaguer. So preoccupied, in fact, that she didn't see the dark-haired man before her until she ran into him, literally.

"Oh," gasped Hermione as he dropped the armful of flowers he'd been holding. "I'm so sorry." Immediately she fell to her knees, picking up the beautiful roses and lilies and trying to desperately arrange them in a semblance of what they'd been before. "I don't know the slightest thing about arranging flowers," she apologized as she worked, not yet daring to look at his face.

He laughed. Actually laughed. It was a slightly forced laugh, a familiar laugh, a laugh she'd heard before. "Hermione," he said then, and she froze, lifting her eyes up the length of a pressed trouser and woolen sweater to see a pair of cloudy green eyes behind black rims she knew all too well.

She straightened sharply, nearly dropping the flowers again. "Harry Potter," she said in a stiff voice. "What are you doing in Hayworth?"

* * *

Draco was eating when Ginny entered the dining room, immaculately dressed in his day robes with every hair in place. A part of her felt sure he dressed so just to spite her – as who really had it in their right minds to look flawless for breakfast? Not that she was inclined to think of him as flawless – Merlin knew he had his share of flaws – but she lacked better words to describe his neatly pressed slacks, his unblemished face, his disgustingly expensive and most unwrinkled shirt. Ginny found herself feeling particularly filthy as she hesitantly made her way towards him, uncertain as to whether she was supposed to eat with him in the first place.

He ignored her very presence until she was standing right before him, and only then did he set aside the newspaper he had been casually scanning to look at her. Taking in her disheveled appearance, there was a brief expression of shock that flitted across his face, replaced quickly by disdain and cold amusement. He said nothing at first, but the silence and the smirk upon his face told her all she needed to know. Face flaming, Ginny took a seat gingerly beside him, now more concentrated on averting his derisive stare than following the rules of etiquette.

"Well," Draco finally drawled, full of icy scorn, "Look what finally showed up to breakfast."

"This isn't breakfast," she grumbled as one of the house-elves set a plate before her. "This is a sodding midnight snack."

He raised an eyebrow. "Not a morning person, are we?"

"Not a person who wishes to be with the likes of you as the first agenda in her day," she retorted, eyeing the beautifully arranged food with a degree of distaste.

"You sound rather ungrateful," he said calmly, though his voice was completely flat – devoid of amusement or emotion. "Must I remind you, Ginny, that you are currently being paid to stay in my home and eat my food?"

She smiled as sweetly as she could. "Must I remind you, _my Lord_," she answered, matching his tone, "that our contract is bound with the most powerful of magic?"

It was his turn to smirk once more. "Ah," said Draco, nodding. "Magic, yes. But all contracts come with loopholes, you know. And considering that I drew up the contract, to make the wild guess that the loopholes would be in my favor might just turn out to be wise."

Internally, Ginny winced. She should've known that Malfoy would've added in some clause that would keep her captive at his will; after all, all Malfoys were notorious for their 'convenient' contacts. And he was, without a doubt, the essential Slytherin. But refusing to let him gain an advantage, she simply smiled – knowingly, she hoped—and said, "Of course, my Lord. I'm just telling the truth. You wouldn't want me to lie, now would you?"

For a moment, she thought she had struck a nerve, but he only returned her smile, tooth for tooth. "Of course," Draco replied almost brightly, and directed his attention once more to his plate, signifying that their discussion was most definitely over.

She gave a small sigh – of what, she wasn't entirely sure – and stared at the array of forks and spoons and knives with concealed confusion. _Why does anyone need so many utensils for a meal?_ Ginny thought incredulously, running a light finger over the spotless silver. Never had she understood the difference a fork could make in eating sausage and muffins, but then again, never had she understood the lives of the filthy rich. Not that she'd been given the opportunity, either.

_Until now_.

Sneaking a glance at Draco, she saw that he was paying her no attention at all, alternating his concentration between the paper and his food. His hand, unfortunately, was hidden beneath the mass of paper, as at this particular moment his eyes were fixed upon the article. Briefly, Ginny contemplated asking him, but her own pride knew that the only response she'd receive would surely be filled with contempt. _I could just not eat_, she thought. _I could wait for him to leave and then eat with my hands. Or any random fork, for that matter._

As if reading her mind, he asked in a disinterested tone, "Aren't you planning to eat, Ginny?"

"I'm on a diet," she answered primly, hoping it would suffice.

He raised his eyebrows and raked a slightly bored gaze over her body. "I suppose I can see why," he replied, and then went back to reading.

Despite that she didn't care what he thought of her, and despite that the diet excuse had been merely a lie anyhow, Ginny felt a hot, indignant flush creep across her neck. "Frankly," she told him, a little more huffily than she would've liked, "I don't give a damn what you think of my body. I'm perfectly fine with it."

"Mmm," he said, not looking at her. "Then why aren't you eating?"

_He had a point_. Scowling fiercely at his lowered head, she muttered, "Imbecile," and took to glaring at her food. Her stomach was growling, however, and the food _did_ smell delicious…_if only Malfoy would move his hand, or take a bite_, she thought disagreeably.

"My Lord," she finally said, as pleasantly as possible. "I was wondering if perhaps I could see that intriguing article you're reading?"

Draco narrowed his mercury eyes at her with unhidden suspicion. "If you don't want to eat," he replied smoothly, "You're welcome to leave, you know."

"I realize," she said, gritting her teeth. "I _am_ planning to eat, thank you, I'd just…it's habit that I read the paper before I eat."

"Well," he smirked, setting down his paper. _Yes! Medium-sized fork with a rose trim_. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I somehow don't think you're interested in the business section. It's all numbers, you know. A bit too complicated for the—" he paused "—likes of you."

Ginny nodded. "You're right," she said cheerfully, and picked up her fork – the right fork.

"Am I?" He was much less surprised than she'd expected him to be.

"Of course, my Lord," she answered. "Though tell me, why exactly are you reading the business section? I wasn't aware of your interest in the business world."

He took the bait. "And why wouldn't I be interested in the business world, Ginny?"

She shrugged between mouthfuls of her food. "I don't know, I just—well I guess now that I think about it," she replied, "I really don't know why you _wouldn't_ be. Though I don't know why you would be either. Tell me, what is it that you do again?"

His eyes darkened to a silver so cloudy it was almost black – like hematite, Ginny noted. "My personal affairs," Draco hissed, and his voice was all ice and hatred again, "are absolutely not matters that _common_ civilians should be concerned about." Tossing down his napkin angrily, he shoved away from the elegant dining table with a scrape of his chair.

"You don't know that I'm common," she retorted before she could stop herself. "You don't even know anything about me besides my name, so you therefore have no right to assert that conclusion."

"Really," he leered. "Then explain to me why you would take this job, if you have ample money. Explain to me why you gaped at my house like a starving man at water, and why every time you see a new room you're struck with awe. Explain to me why—" and he grinned now, only it brought her no comfort "—you don't even know which breakfast fork to use."

She jumped in her seat, letting the fork clatter onto the porcelain plate loudly as a scarlet blush reddened her cheeks. "Why you—" Ginny started indignantly, and then saw that he had already disappeared out the doors.

* * *

The silence was overbearing. Technically, it wasn't silent, as there were other customers in the shop and the bustling sounds of morning, but in that moment Hermione felt as if it were just the two of them, trapped in a vacuum of emptiness for a long, drawn out moment before Harry Potter replied. A part of her expected him to disappear any moment, for her to wake up and realize he was just a chimera.

He didn't. Instead, Harry shrugged, gesturing around at the flowers around them. "Buying a bouquet," he said, sounding a slight bit uncomfortable. "This store is highly recommended. You?"

"I live down the street," replied Hermione shortly. "Or maybe you forgot."

He wasn't at all fazed by her cool tone. "That doesn't explain why you're in the flower shop," He said almost teasingly. She scrutinized him for a moment, scrutinized the changes that had taken place in the long years since she'd seen him. He'd filled out a bit, become more bulky in muscle, which, coupled with his confident stance, gave him a slightly imposing demeanor. And his hair was now it was cropped close to his head, giving outsiders an illusion of neatness, though still slightly unruly if she looked closely enough. His clothes, however, shocked her the most – the Harry Potter she knew was most comfortable in loose sweats and a Chasers shirt. Never before had she seen him particular to _style_, but now here he was, dressed in clothes she'd envisioned brooding artist types to wear – neat slacks with cuffs over shiny black loafers and a form-fitting sweater that she highly doubted was of much comfort.

But his glasses hadn't changed, nor his voice. _Gods, his voice – how could I have forgotten that voice?_ His voice was part of his charm; it was what lured dozens of women to his flat after they'd graduated. It had deepened surprisingly near the end of their sixth year, and by the time he was eighteen had taken on a hypnotic, musical lilt that few could resist.

"Well?" He prompted with a dimpled smile.

"Um," Hermione frowned. She hadn't been expecting this – this friendliness. But then what was she to expect from the famed and magnanimous Harry Potter? "My friend, uh, I'm buying them for a friend. Special occasion"

Harry laughed again, and it sounded more natural this time. "Isn't that usually the guy's role?"

"Well, she's a woman," she answered, then blanched at the implications.

There was a slightly stricken expression on his handsome face – handsome, Hermione noted, even after all these years. "A woman?" he echoed, a glint of what could've been shadowed curiosity appearing in his eyes.

"A colleague," she resisted smirking. "She's pregnant, and it's a congratulatory gesture."

He colored visibly. "Right, of course." Then, as she flashed him a tight smile and started to turn the other way, he shot out a hand and grasped her arm. "Hermione," he said again, and for some reason her name sounded different coming from him.

She turned, expectantly, because despite all that Hermione Granger had been through, she was not equipped to walk out on Harry fucking Potter. "Yes?" She said brusquely.

There was a slight hesitation before he went on. "I haven't seen you in so long, Mione," he started in a rush, and if she didn't know better she would've guessed he was nervous, "and I was thinking maybe we could grab some lunch some time, you know, catch up."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "As in a date."

He looked surprised, and then alarmed, and took a few quick steps backwards with his palms facing her. "No," Harry said quickly. "A friendly thing."

She frowned, feeling all the resentment and anger and sorrow she'd bottled up from being deserted after Ron's death bubble to the surface in a hot, scalding rage. And it wasn't because Harry was making a reappearance in her life, either, no, Ginny had proven she was fine with that – it was that he could waltz into _her_ neighborhood flower market and think she'd forgotten all about his past indiscretions, simply because he was Harry Potter.

Boy, was he ever wrong.

"A friendly thing," Hermione repeated in her most level voice. "A friendly thing."

He nodded, though still to cautious to show relief.

"Let me tell you something, Harry Potter," Hermione hissed. "We are _not_ friends. Friends do not desert their friends in a time of crisis. Friends do not go for years without even asking or caring about one another. _Friends_ do not take a bloody fucking decade of trust and warmth and love and throw it all away like yesterday's trash." She swallowed, and he blinked at her, stunned into speechlessness. "And as for non-friendly relationships," Hermione continued, waving her hand – and the shiny diamond on her fourth finger – in his face, "I'm engaged. But you would know that, wouldn't you, if you'd stuck around when I needed you most. You would know that if you'd been at all a friend."

Leaving one very shell-shocked Harry Potter standing limpid in Hayworth's finest flower shop, Hermione turned on her heel and stomped out the door. For one brief, gratifying moment, her heart swelled with a pride and content and satisfaction from telling him off, from delivering the speech she'd delivered to her shower wall thousands of times over.

And then she reached the Freedom League, where the streets and people and atmosphere were as bleak as ever, and whatever gratification she'd felt promptly gave way to a dull, bitter aching that left her feeling emptier than she'd ever thought possible.

* * *

After breakfast, Ginny set about the sprawling grounds, pockets bulging with cameras. A quick glance around the hall told her that Draco had retired to his study, and she found this the opportune moment to go about planting her devices, as the sooner she did, the more information she was likely to collect.

_Stupid loathsome toad_, she grumbled to herself as she trailed down the empty and cavernous halls, wrinkling her nose at memory of their unpleasant morning encounter. She was beginning to wonder as to why he'd hired her in the first place, as he didn't seem keen on her at all; in fact, if she didn't know better, she would've thought that he was treating her exactly as he had at Hogwarts. A chill ran through her at this thought, and she dismissed it quickly, safe in the knowledge that her true identity was a secret safely kept.

Her first stop of the day was Malfoy's bedchamber. It was also, coincidentally, the absolute last place Ginny wanted to be in. However, of all the rooms in the mansion, her two best bets were placed with his bedchamber and his study, the latter of which was currently occupied. A rush of adrenaline pumped through her veins as she stopped at his double doors, glancing around for house elves before slipping inside.

"Merlin," Ginny breathed as she slowly shut the door behind her and took in the grandeur of his chamber. If she'd thought her guest room stunningly large, his was beyond compare. It was at least five times larger, and comprised of three separate areas – a lavatory as all bedchambers in the Manor had, an octagonal floor raised a few feet off the floor on which an enormous four-poster bed rested, and a sitting room surrounded by ceiling high windows. Malfoy had a penchant for large windows, Ginny noted, fingering the rich green curtains and fat silver tassels – Slytherin colors – and recalling the identical windows in his study.

Quickly, she slithered behind the curtains and anchored one of the cameras just where windowpane met wall. _This should cover most of the sitting area_, she concluded after a few moments of twisting the camera for optimal range. Feeling pleased with herself, she made her way up the steps towards his bed, which was sheathed in the same curtains on his window. "You would think," she muttered to herself, "That after all these years he'd have gotten sick of his bloody house pride." His room had an unsettling aura about it that she likened to the dungeons at Hogwarts, a coldness exemplified by the Slytherins in dosages more than she could tolerate. But then again, she _was_ in his mansion, and the entire place reeked of the strange essence Malfoys always possessed – arrogance and wiles and mercilessness all mixed into one.

There was a slight feeling of guilt that washed over Ginny as she opened his drawers. Not that she had any qualms about bringing Malfoy down; she was simply unaccustomed to rifling through the possessions of others. Even her previous auror work had never brought her into spying at such a close and personal range, and she felt rather uncomfortable. But she was here to do a job, Ginny reminded herself, and she would put that unease safely behind her. Carefully, as so not to disturb his things too much, she lifted them out of his bureau, memorizing their exact positions so as to replace them easily later.

_A spare wand…some letters…what, no playwitch? Then again, why would someone need the paper version if they can have the real one?_ Shivering despite herself, Ginny banished those thoughts from her head and unraveled the loose string around his letters. There were no more than three, contained in dust-eaten envelopes that indicated that he'd had them for at least two years. They were written on Forsyth parchment – thick, smooth, waterproof parchment made from the enchanted woods of Forsyth that sold for more per sheet than a lifetime's supply of Ginny's normal paper. Obviously whoever had written to Draco held enough power to obtain such parchment, enough wealth to purchase it, and considered him important enough to go to such lengths for a letter.

Ginny wondered for a brief moment if Draco had been married before, perhaps to rich and beautiful Slytherin as he was destined too, and decided with some reluctance that the possibility was very much real. No, he was not the type to be tied down to a single woman, but then on the other hand she had not thought him the type to save letters from a woman either – so therefore, if the latter were false, he could very well have fallen in love.

The thought propelled a complex plethora of emotions within her ranging from disgust to disbelief to a slight tinge of jealousy. If Draco Malfoy could love and be loved, why wouldn't she?

_You're being ridiculous_, she scolded herself. Draco Malfoy, as she well knew, was incapable of love and after all, there was no evidence the letters were even from a woman. They could just as well be from a childhood friend – or his father, even. With that in mind, she removed the first letter carefully and smoothed in on the rich wood of his bureau, her heart jumping when she saw that the paper was absolutely, most definitely, blank.

To her entirely unexpected surprise, however, a soft female voice began to speak. "Draco, darling—" it began.

With a shriek, Ginny dropped the letter, causing the parchment to fold up and immediately halt whatever it had been saying. She sank to her knees slowly, a hand pressed over her heart and listening to her own pulse slow down. _Dear gods_, she realized with a start, _It's not just Forsyth parchment, it's enchanted Forsyth parchment_. As a child, she'd been told of such magic – the special, scarce paper that recorded a person's voice rather than their words.

And then the voice echoed in her head – _Draco, darling_ – and she realized that it she had indeed been right – it _was_ a woman. Taking a deep breath, Ginny reached for the parchment and unfolded it once more, feeling somewhat envious of the melodic lilt of this mystery woman's voice.

"Draco, darling," the voice started once more. "I hope you are well. I am simply writing as to assuage your worries. You are a grown man and despite your adamant refusal to admit your love for me, I know you do. Things here are not as smooth as I'd have wished, but I am confident I will be home soon, so please take care of yourself in my absence, and remember that I love you dearly."

There was no indication as to who she was.

Ginny felt an overwhelming shock settle about her. To her knowledge, and to the knowledge of the world that knew him, Draco Malfoy was cold and indifferent to those who cared about him – and yet here she was, somebody who evidently cared very much for him. What had become of her? She found herself wondering. There were but three letters, and she was obviously not around any longer – _or I haven't met her yet_, Ginny frowned.

Intrigued by the unknowns and possibilities of this woman, she slid the first letter back into its paper sheath and reached for the second, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu as the voice began again. There was something oddly familiar about the voice, about the calm and composure and slight hint of arrogance which resonated within.

"My dearest Draco. I know I am not supposed to contact you, and until this task is complete you shall not be hearing from me again. I will be very much glad when this task is complete, for this place is cold and dreary and I miss the warmth of the Manor. May I plead once more for you to retake your residence there when I return? I realize you have not the best memories of your home, and I realize you are perfectly content living on your own, but do know that it will always be your home. I must keep this letter short now, darling, for I have not much time left. Take care of yourself."

_She must be involved with the dark arts somehow_, Ginny thought excitedly. The task she had been speaking of, coupled with the date, all matched up to one of the largest and most brutal attacks by Voldemort in the history of England. This woman must have been involved in this raid, and no doubt she had served underneath the Dark Lord. In fact, she concluded, this woman could be her very key to incriminating Draco Malfoy – why else would he have her letters? Eager to see her whereabouts after the attack – as there was a third letter, which indicated that the woman had not perished, Ginny hurriedly put away the letter and opened the last.

"Draco, love," the letter began, and Ginny frowned. This time, the woman did not sound as nonchalant. Her voice was rougher, more cautious, as if she were—_whispering_, Ginny realized, _she's whispering_. "I hope you will be able to read this before the news comes. I hope you will be able to read this at all."

_Oh, Merlin_…_it can't be her…_

"Your father and I have been compromised, Draco."

_It was_.

"We are currently in Azkaban, just a few moments away from execution. They have spared us the Kiss, my son, but they will not spare us death. And I would not like them to, because I have lived and fought for my cause, and I am prepared to die for it. I have but one regret, and that is that I cannot see you anymore. I do not wish you had come on this task with us, for you are young and bright and you have a chance to lead England down the road she is destined to take. Rather, I am glad you may carry out what I in my old age failed to do so. Your father's will is in Gringotts, where it will be enacted once official news of our death arrives. I know you will honor your family by moving into the Manor, by caring for the sacred grounds our family have held for centuries for now. And I hope you honor me by serving that family well. The power is in your hands now, the power your father has prepared you to receive since your noble beginning. You are no longer Draco Malfoy, but the Lord of Malfoy Manor. Per honor ad victoriam, per bellum ad pacem. I love you always."

There reigned a heavy silence over the room as the letter came to an end. Ginny leaned back against the thick comforter of his bed, emotions racing through her head as she stared at the blank parchment. Of course, Ginny realized, Azkaban had windows. They weren't large enough for even the smallest child to fit through, but certainly large enough for a well-trained owl to receive a letter. She remembered now, the night they captured Lucius Malfoy and his band of staunch followers. She remembered how they had tossed in a diary and writing utensils simply to spite the family she so loathed. She remembered the beautiful woman they had captured alongside Lucius – Narcissa Malfoy. But most of all, she remembered the beautiful white owl which soared above in the sky away from the prison as she and her brother had stepped outside. "Look," Ron had said, "She's warning Voldemort that he's going to lose." She had told him not to be daft, and had not thought any more of it.

Until now.

_This letter has nearly enough_, Ginny thought dizzily as she began wrapping the string around them._ She nearly implies that he's entangled with the Dark Lord – and it's certainly good evidence_. The excitement she should've felt, however, was slightly dampened by a confusing wave of sympathy, for she knew what it was like to lose a loved one – to lose family. _It's the fault of those like me that his parents are dead._

_But it's the fault of those like him that Ron's dead_, she reminded herself angrily.__

Pushing the guilt out of her mind sharply, Ginny stood and began the daunting task of diligently rearranging Draco's bureau, just as she'd found it. Even despite that it looked identical to before she'd come across it, there still seemed something missing – as well there should, since something _was_ missing. Determined to take the letters with her, she set them in the drawer just for comparison, just to see if indeed the letters completed the undisturbed setting she was aiming for.

Well, Ginny finally decided, sweeping her gaze over the contents once more, it would just have to do. She needed those letters direly, and Draco had no way to link the missing property to her anyhow.

Making up her mind, she was just about to remove them once more when the door opened.

With a startled gasp, Ginny whirled around, slamming the drawer behind her just in time. In the drawn out silence of the tension-thick room, she could hear her heart beating erratically.

"And why are you in here?"

-End of Chapter 4-


	6. A Ride on the Wild Side

A/N GAHHHH I know it's been an uncharasterically long time and…I'm really really sorry. If you're wondering, yes, this story WILL be finished. And no, I haven't forgotten about it at all. Hopefully it's not going to happen again, but I've got college applications and stuff and absolutely NO TIME in the world. Anyways. Accept my apologies and a slightly more D/G chapter in place, oui? grins endearingly And remember the review!

Chapter 5. A Ride on the Wild Side

Ginny Weasley stalked down the cobblestone path to the stables with her heart beating so erratically it overwhelmed her in the quiet. _That was terrible, and risky, and you could've gotten caught by bloody Malfoy_, she told herself angrily as she approached, replaying the scenes from a moment earlier in her head – shuffling through Malfoy's private drawers, reading his letters, getting nearly caught by his house elf. Thankfully she'd stuffed the letters back and slammed the drawer shut behind her as the elf had opened the door, and was able to convince him with a good deal of acting that she'd gotten lost in the twisting hallways.

"Master is waiting for you," the elf had said after a few moments of long, deliberate silence, and Ginny had nearly hugged him in joy. "Down by the stables, he is waiting for you."

So she went, determined that she could retrieve the letters later, and begged the elf not to tell Malfoy, claiming it was her first day on the job and she needed the money. Back at Hogwarts when Hermione had started S.P.E.W, she'd been told that the way to house elf's heart, or at least the way to get them to do your bidding, was to appeal to the ones with the cruel masters. Demote yourself to gain sympathy, and therefore earn their trust. This advice, of course, had not been related by the ever-avenging Hermione, but instead Neville, who she'd turned to when the trio had left her by herself.

That, though, was all a different story.

Malfoy was standing just within her frame of view as she approached the barn, turned slightly so that his profile was visible to her. Ginny paused at the bottom of the hill, ducking behind one of the nearing bushes to observe him for a moment. She'd expected him to be annoyed or at least impatient with the time she was taking to appear, but he had the same mask of indifference on as he always wore – apparently, she thought wryly, it wasn't much of a mask but instead a face that seemed to never leave.

_How can anyone go through life never showing emotion?_ Ginny found herself wondering. Then again, Malfoy wasn't just _anyone_. He was one of the wealthiest and most privileged of society – the elite, whether she would want to classify him as so or not – and she could assume that keeping cool was just another home lesson which came with his family upbringing. For a moment, she felt a fleeting sympathy of sorts, remembering Snape's words and thinking that truly, she never would be able to understand how Draco Malfoy had been as a child. There would be no comparison, she realized, because while she hadn't the new brooms and fascinating toys, she did have a family who loved her, and she doubted that Lucius Malfoy could've been one to often provide love. She wondered if toys were enough substitue for a young boy, and then decided that nothing could replace love – that maybe, just maybe, Draco was as cold as he was because all he really wanted was somebody to love him.

Ginny let out a sharp exhalation of breath. _As if_, she thought darkly. _Draco Malfoy is a terrible, evil person because he just is. And the only person he would ever want to love him is himself. _Thought of the letter she had just heard flew into her mind, and she further proved her own point with the knowledge that he _did _have his mother. _But even Narcissa can't possibly undo what Lucius must've taught his child…_

As Draco lifted a hand to brush against the beautiful white unicorn, however, she was suddenly struck with an image of another Draco Malfoy – a Draco who posessed the same skills and talents but had an entirely different surrounding. Her lips parted slightly involuntarily as she was propelled into an alternate universe of her own, mentally replacing his expensive black robe with a pair of scruffy trousers and a worn sweater. The resulting Draco, she found, was not entirely unpleasant.

"Master, your saddle is ready," said one of the house-elves, interrupting Ginny's train of thought. He was acknowledged with a curt nod, and then Draco turned a little more so she caught the entirety of his face, the aristocratic air that had somewhat lessened without the coldness of his eyes, a coldness now fully in view. The sweater-wearing Draco returned to her minds, and the idea that they could be one person seemed more ludicrous by the moment. _That Draco doesn't exist_, Ginny reminded herself quickly, stepping out as if to shake whatever thoughts she'd been having along with their implications.

He had sharp reflexes, and spotted her immediately. Keeping his sharp eyes focused on her as she neared him, no doubt taking in the plainness of her clothes, he used his other hand to casually loosen the clasps of his robe. Even when she had come to a full stop before him, he said nothing, simply staring with raised eyebrows and continuing to fiddle with his clasp. As if she had no control of her own body, she felt her cheeks warm under his scrutinizing gaze. Somehow, Ginny thought wryly, he always managed to make her feel three centimeters tall, and somehow she always looked grossly underdressed beside him.

"I wasn't aware people got dollied up for riding," she flushed hotly before he had chance to say anything and refusing to be embarassed.

Draco looked at her for a long, deriding moment. "Is that why you were hiding behind the vegetation?" He asked calmly, and returned to a stubborn silver clasp which refused to loosen.

Ginny ignored him. "I don't see how we'd go riding in full robes anyhow," she went on confidently. "It's highly impractical."

"I realize," He retorted, and her eyebrows flew up in alarm. She hadn't expected him to _agree_. "That's why I'm removing my robe," he gestured to the garmet he was currently struggling with. "So we can go riding in a _practical _manner."

"Why are we riding anyways?" she demanded, folding her arms pertinently across her chest. "Because at breakfast, I was somehow not given the impression you wanted to spend time with me. Not that I want to spend time with you, either."

At her words, Draco paused and flashed her a cool smirk. "Ginny," he told her rather amusedly, "Your _job_ is to spend time with me. Though it should be the other way around, especially with your kind. Not that I'd ever really need to work for money, of course."

"My kind?" Her voice was unnaturally high. "And exactly what are you trying to imply with that?"

"I mean the kind," he replied in what almost seemed an exasperated voice, "That doesn't even know how to ride unicorns. Which is why we're here, Ginny, whether you think or not I like to spend time with common people, because to be in my presence and in the presence of the public, unicorns are often involved. And it would not fare well for you to appear in affiliation with anything Malfoy and not know how to mount a bloody unicorn properly, would it?"

She felt a sharp wave of anger knife through her, and she glared at him furiously, despite the fact that his eyes were concentrated with a good deal of frustration on his clasp still. "I can't believe we're having this discussion again," she seethed. "You calling me a bloody commoner like you bloody even know me, you bloody prat."

"Bloody true," he agreed mockingly.

"For all you know," she continued, "I could be a professional unicorn rider. I could teach _you_ some things about riding unicorns." It infuriated her even more that he didn't seem to be paying her mind at all, and in one swift motion she reached out and flicked open the clasp, jumping as her hand brushed against his own cool one. Stepping back quickly, she spat, "And if you're so high above me, why can't you undo your own sodding robe?"

Draco said nothing to this, only sweeping off his robe easily to reveal an equally expensive-looking pair of pressed charcoal trousers and a pristine white collared shirt, both of which seemed to Ginny grossly inappropriate for riding still. He slung the robe carelessly across one of the stable doors, and then turned sharply on his heel, gesturing for her to follow him. "We of the non-common folk haven't much knowledge of clothes except that they should be rightly more than fifty galleons," he said over his shoulder after a brief second, and there was something about the way he said it which suggested to her that he was not entirely serious.

Still, she felt her temper boiling. "Yet you spend time with the _common_," she muttered, glowering at his back.

Draco whirled around so quickly she almost ran into him. Her instincts still in tact from dodging quaffles back in her quidditch days, however, Ginny stopped just centimeters from his chest, cheeks pinking as she raised her eyes to meet his. To her surprise, he was staring at her with an odd sort of intensity flickering in the mercury of his eyes, an indecipherable gleam appearing within them as he studied her. "I do," he finally said in a soft, dangerous voice, "But only to break them."

There was such seriousness in his words that Ginny felt a shudder run through her. But before she had chance to reply or even further contemplate their conversation, however, he had turned once more, reaching out his hand as a house-elf approached with a stunning black unicorn behind him.

"My unicorn," said Draco shortly, and her eyes grew wide.

"I thought they were always white," she breathed, for she had rarely been in such close proximity with a unicorn. The thought flitted through her head then that since childhood, she'd always fantasized of owning a unicorn. But that dream had long diminished, if not by the realities of maturing at Hogwarts then by the dreary hopelessness of the war. _Yet here I am, living on Draco Malfoy's estate, preparing to ride unicorns with him_._ Ironic_.

"They usually are," He answered, and his voice lost its biting quality. "The one you'll be riding is. The female ones most always are white, actually. And since they're much more common, they're also the ones most commonly marketed. Black unicorns are a rarity, a treasure."

"And what happens if a white and black unicorn mate?" asked Ginny with great curiosity, eyes growing even wider as Draco unhooked the stable door and gently ushered out a beautiful white specimen. In that moment, all thought of her assignment, of bringing down Malfoy suddenly flew out of her head, and she was awed by the sight of the magestic beast before her.

"Ah," Draco nodded. "That's an even greater rarity. In the history of the wizarding world, there have only been five cases of such breedings, none of which were recent enough to be photographed, and rumor has it that they turn out silver."

"Silver, really?" Ginny echoed in unsupressed delight.

An expression of surprise briefly settled in his features, but then it was gone and he nodded once more. "A rumor, of course," he reminded most unexcitedly

"Of course," she agreed, and gently stroked the side of her unicorn, a small smile curling her lips involuntarily. "What's her name?"

"Ariadne," He said, and Ginny was oblivious to the fact that he was watching her under lidded eyes as she gently ran her fingers through the unicorn's mane.

"Ariadne," she repeated softly, grinning as the creature let out a content sort of sound. "Well aren't you just the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." She turned quickly, gaze focusing on the great black unicorn and seemingly forgetting where she was, who she was with. "And what's his name?"

He glanced at the woods for a brief moment before replying. "Theseus."

"Theseus and Ariadne," Ginny mulled over this in thought. "Wanted them to mate, did you? Well I suppose a silver unicorn would've brought your family great money. Of course, make the wealthy wealthier, the selfish selfisher."

Draco frowned at her. "Selfisher is not a word," he told her rather icily. "And what's this about wanting them to mate?"

Whatever spell Ginny had been under at the introduction of the unicorns suddenly disappated at the sudden chill of his voice, because the world around her seemed to settle in suddenly, and realization flitted across her face, followed briefly by horror. "Theseus and Ariadne," she said again, slightly helplessly as her face reddened. _How could I have allowed myself to get so carried away by two unicorns? And is it possible that he named these two after a Greek mythological couple by coincedence? That would be far to great of a coincidence, surely…_

"What in the devil's name are you gabbing on about?" He demanded, and now he sounded slightly annoyed.

She only shook her head, and it dawned on her then. "You didn't name them."

He scowled. "Of course not, you daft bint. Now come on, we're not getting younger. Get on your bloody animal. Let's see if you're half as professional as you claim to be, mmm?"

_I don't know how_. Ginny swallowed audibly, eyes darting to the ground as her own words from moments prior floated into her head. She wished direly now she hadn't lost her head with him and gone on about commoners and unicorn-riding, because now admitting that she really had no clue how to go about mounting the damn thing, let alone riding, would cost her pride quite a few blows. "Um," she stalled.

Draco narrowed his eyes, obviously suspicious. "What."

She exhaled sharply, forcing herself to meet his gaze with as much dignity as she could force into her posture. "Idon'tknowhow," she blurted out, and cringed, waiting for the torrent of smug words to come. He stared at her with a cross of disbelief and frustration, and she added a meek, "My Lord", hoping it would soften the blow.

If he was anything other than annoyed, Draco made no indication. "I don't have time for this," he muttered under his breath, and she crossed her arms uncertainly, because now it certainly didn't seem right to reprimand him. He moved behind her suddenly, to her utter surprise, and circled one arm around her waist. Ginny stiffened in alarm, letting out a yelp, but before she had a chance to pull away or even protest, he had looped the other around her lower body and hoisted her up swiftly onto the animal with the ease of someone who had done so thousands of times before.

Without another word, he strolled away from her and mounted his own unicorn gracefully, leaving her speechless on Ariadne, face beet red with mortification and body tingling from the soft pressure of where his fingers had touched her.

* * *

For the first time in her entire life, Hermione was late to work. It was, perhaps, the most mortifying day of her career, as she walked in sans flowers and sans pride, head down and avoiding Snape's scrutinizing gaze at all costs and shuffled to her office. Most people who heard about the Freedom League imagined men and women in leather pantsuits and high-tech wands, who met in an underground cave and talked in code. In reality, it was not nearly as glamorous, and not all that different from the Ministry of Magic. As all organizations went, there was paperwork to be done and as the League only accepted the most elite of aurors, those elite were the only ones privileged enough to handle such information. The offices, of course, had no windows, being in an alternative dimension and all. Hermione herself was not sure where she was after she entered the iron-grid doors, and never thought to wonder. The whole concepts of other dimensions was a bit much for anyone to handle, even her. It was one of those things most left unquestioned and unexplained, because there was no other choice. 

Thankfully, her pregnant coworker had drawn most of the fellow leaguers into her own office, and Hermione was able to slip inside unnoticed. A part of her felt happy for the woman – Sophie Kingsley was her name – but another bitter part of her felt it was unreasonable to have a child in the middle of all this war, felt that no such child could have the normal or happy upbringing they deserved. That part, Hermione knew deep down, came from knowing that she had miscarried the baby growing inside her the day Ron died. She had never told anyone this, of course, as they all seemed to blame her for Ron's death already – she couldn't imagine what Mrs. Weasley would've done had she known that the last living piece of Ron too had been killed.

With a sigh, Hermione put such jealousies out of her mind and opened her cabinet. "Accio parchments," she murmured softly, and a sheath of thick papers flew into her hands. Rubbing her forehead and willing herself not think of Ron or the Weasleys or Harry Potter, she picked up a quill, and bowed her head to skim over the work before her.

The case she'd been assigned was one she'd picked through to no end, and yet there seemed no leads. Three weeks ago, the Freedom League had accepted their first non-English officer – a twenty-four-year old auror with an impressive resume from the Ministry in Italy, where Voldemort had recently attacked. Young but legendary, she was Jezebel Giani, a vibrant, beautiful raven-haired witch with sultry violet eyes and a thick accent who had most of the League's male counterparts on their knees when she smiled. She was the kind of beauty Hermione had always wished herself to be – striking and unique, and yet not some demure pageant queen who let men put her on a pedastal. Well, the last part wasn't entirely true – Jezebel was more than willing to be put on a pedastal, but she was still intelligent and headstrong, and all in all a valuble asset to the League.

One week ago, Jezebel had disappeared.

Hermione had issued all the disapparation tracers in the country, had stepped through Jezebel's plush suite time and time again, and in the end she had no leads. It was as if one morning, Jezebel Giani had vanished from the face of the earth. She was in her bed, and then she wasn't, and there was no accounting for what had happened during or after.

"Late, were we?" came a voice from above her, and Hermione glanced up to see Severus Snape staring at her with a slightly amused expression on his face.

She grimaced. "It won't happen again," she said in her most polite and respectful voice, and suddenly she felt as if she were sixteen and in Potions at Hogwarts.

For a moment, it seemed as if Snape was going to berate her, but then he seemed to change his mind, instead directing his attention to the paper before her. "I see you're still stymied over the Giani disappearance."

"Yes," she groaned, burying her head in her arms. "I just don't understand what could've happened to her. She knew a lot of our information in the two weeks we briefed her here, didn't she?"

Snape pursed his lips and gave her a long, searching stare. "You think she was a double agent?"

Hermione let out another frustrated sigh. "I've considered it. But she was a good auror, wasn't she?"

"Italy's best," he confirmed.

"So she couldn't have run off," she concluded. "It couldn't have been _her_ double-timing us. She was too good of an auror and too loyal to Italy's ministry to do that. And I mean, with the League's standards and background checks and truth potions…no, if she was a double there's no possible way she would've infiltrated us. There's no possible way we would've given her so much information."

"You're certain, then," Snape asked.

She nodded, and went on. "That means somebody must have gotten to her, kidnapped her or…I'm thinking coerced her into leaving. But where? Nobody saw her leave. She didn't disapparate. She didn't even floo, for chrissakes. And if she traveled like a bloody muggle, then some muggle would've seen her. And believe me, I've questioned. They haven't. Furthermore, I've checked with the Italian Ministry, and she didn't come to England with a permit for an Invisibility Cloak, so she would _have_ to be seen, wouldn't she?"

He raised an eyebrow in a prompt for her to continue.

"It just confuses me," Hermione said tiredly, "How someone like Jezebel can vanish, how all traces of her and life can just…disappear. She's not the type to go unnoticed, Severus, even you're male enough to realize that, and yet nobody, _nobody_ has spotted her. It's like she's invisible."

They stared at the parchment together in befuddled silence for a moment, and then Snape patted her shoulder in a comforting sort of gesture she'd never seen him do before. "Maybe," he said slowly, "The reason why she seems to have vanished is because she really isn't here anymore."

Hermione sent him a confused glance.

"Maybe," Snape shrugged, his words slow and deliberate, "We're looking for a corpse. Maybe Jezebel Giani is dead."

_Like everything else important in this world_, Hermione thought.

* * *

Thirty minutes passed in silence between Ginny and Draco as they rode out into the thick woods adjacent to the manor. He spoke nothing to her, and she did not feel the need to interrupt the delicate peace they had somewhat established despite her occasional (quelched) wonder as to whether they were still on his grounds. For the most part, Ginny was content to revel in the woodsy scents and delightful sounds of the woods, as there was something oddly relaxing about riding, which she supposed was because she'd never before ridden a unicorn. At this she felt a strange and unwarranted twinge of embarassment for her delight, as he'd not said anything degrading to her. Come to think of it, he'd not even given her one of his trademark degrading sneers. The embarassment, she decided then, was attributed to the fact that the path he took her on was only wide enough to contain one unicorn at a time, and thus she ended up behind him, staring now and then at the back of his perfectly groomed head. Had he been at her side, he would've surely commented by now. 

Unwillingly, her thoughts went to him once more. Though she wanted to temporarily forget where she was and why she was there, the inevitability of her task still loomed overhead. Still, the more she thought about it, the more she felt as if all this – the job, Hermione, Viane – was all a dream. Or a terrible, horrible nightmare she wanted to wake up from right now. It just didn't seem real, Ginny rationalized, being here in a crisp black helmet emblazoned _Malfoy _and riding on one of her worst enemy's beautiful unicorns, making small talk.

Okay, scratch the small talk part.

And here she was, with a good deal of evidence in her hands, surely able to put Malfoy away for life and earn more of the fame she truly deserved. Maybe, just maybe, Harry would return to her – just as a friend, of course – and maybe she could feel at least some closure to the overwhelming guilt which had stayed by her side since Ron's death. But that was all too easy, too conveniant. She felt that perhaps there was some master plan in all of this, some catch or some glitch.

But then again, when had fame solved anything for Ginny Weasley? It certainly hadn't when Ron had died – no, she'd always been plenty reknowned at the workplace. First division auror, though certainly no Freedom Leaguer, she was quick and intelligent and…_and what?_ Ginny sighed despite herself, for she knew the answer to this question. _And utterly devoid of hope._

This was no time to feel sorry for herself though, Ginny reminded herself bitterly. She was here for a job, and she would finish that job.

"My lord," she said then, breaking the heavy quiet between them.

Draco looked up sharply, as if surprised to find her there. "Yes?" He demanded a bit snippily, though not entirely unkindly.

She bit her lip. "How was your childhood?" Ginny blurted out.

He narrowed those intimidating silver eyes at her, seeming put off and rather unsure he'd heard her correctly. "Excuse me? My childhood?"

Seeing he hadn't yet ordered her to shut her mouth, she pressed on daringly. "Yes, my lord, tell me about your childhood. Please."

"I haven't anything to tell," he replied, setting his mouth into a firm line and looking straight ahead, a blunt signal that their conversation was finished.

_How about why you feel attached enough to your mother to save her letters? How about whether you loved your parents enough to follow them into Voldemort's plan without question?_ "You have to have _something_," she said instead, aware she was treading on dangerously thin ice. "Everyone has a childhood, my lord." Draco glanced at her with a flicker of displeasure written upon his aristocratic features, and she added, "Even a pompous, unfeeling snit as yourself."

Ginny could swear there was a tiny smile at the corner of his lips, but it must have been an illusion because then it was gone, and up again came the stony indifference. "I never said I didn't have a childhood," He retorted. "I just said that I haven't anything to tell _you_. Which I don't. I hired you for certain public affairs, and yes, then you _are_ my alleged 'companion', but until then, don't try to get personal with me. I don't need a bloody therapist, Ginny, and a certainly don't need someone like you in my business."

"Someone like me?" she repeated incredulously. "Oh wait, you mean a _commoner_."

"No," he snapped, "I mean a nosy bint who doesn't know what's good for her."

"And _you_ know what's good for me?" scoffed Ginny.

He sighed in an almost tired way. "I didn't say that either," Draco answered impatiently. "I said _you_ don't. Do stop putting words in my mouth, Ginny."

Biting back her cheeky retort, Ginny glared at him for a moment and then pretended to be highly fascinated by Ariadne's beautiful mane. "You know," she burst out after a moment, unable to suppress the words any longer. "I just don't understand you."

"What makes you think you're meant to understand me, hmm?" he replied smoothly without hesitating once. "What makes you think that anyone understands me? And what makes you think I care if people understand me?"

She ignored him. "I don't understand why you would hire me if you hate me so much. I don't understand why you have to hire anyone at all."

His eyes glinted, and now she was certain there was slight amusement in them. "Why I have to hire anyone at all?" He repeated silkily. "Do explain."

"Stop," Ginny snapped. "You know perfectly well what I mean. As much as I think you're a lousy human being and a total asshole – which, I might add, is an entirely accurate assessment – let's not forget that you're worth more than most of England put together. And that, to plenty of women, is more than enough reward to put up with you."

"Put up with me?" Draco said incredulously."_Put up with me_? Women are _lucky_ if I even as much give them a seconds consideration. Women _fight_ over one another to fill a spot that's not in my will, or in my trust fund, but in my bed."

"Then why," she near shouted, triumphant he had fallen right into her trap, "if you have so many _beautiful_ and _available _women, would you dish out money to make me, a lowly commoner, your bloody companion?"

He looked at her for one long, scrutinizing moment. In which everything around her seemed to slow, in which probing silver bored into her from under heavy lids, in which she felt her own world spinning around for reasons unknown. And then, as abruptly as he'd turned towards her, he turned away, staring out into the trail before them.

"My lord?" she asked in a calmer voice after a few seconds of quiet.

"My mother was a companion for my father," he said finally, flatly. She blinked in surprise, and darted a quick glance at him, but he was still staring straight ahead with an impassive face. "She was a trophy wife, but not your typical trophy wife. I mean, she was beautiful of course – all the women in this society really are, except maybe the Bulstrodes. But she was more than that, she was the sort of woman that most men are drawn to in one glance, the sort of woman that passes someone on the street and leaves them thinking about her for hours later. Not house-wife frumpy like you." Ginny, for her part, was too riveted to retort, and too afraid to disturb whatever had propelled Draco Malfoy to talk so openly about his parents. "And she was so different from my father."

"It didn't seem like it," Ginny said softly. He gave her a sharp look, and she added, "I just mean that whenever they were seen in public they appeared bred of one bloodline. I've read the journals, you know." _And, of course, that letter in your room which certainly indicates she followed his causes._

"Of course they seemed like it," Draco replied, still not looking at her. "That's what made her such a trophy wife. In the papers, they were Lucius and Narcissa, this couple of beauty and wealth and elegance who lived a charmed, if somewhat hidden life. She was rich, he was richer, and together they could've bought Hogwarts. But you have to understand that beyond the papers they were people." He seemed lost in thought for a moment, but continued in a voice with such a quality it didn't seem he was talking about his own parents. "Lucius Malfoy – my father – people were afraid of him. And rightly so. He carried two wands with him at all time, one minimized out of sight. And a sword, dipped in Hydra poison, charmed to stay conspicuous with his clothing. He distrusted the public, his friends, most things in general."

"And you?" Ginny asked. "Did he distrust you?"

Draco ignored her. Obviously, she noted, he was willing to share as long as he didn't share anything about himself. Yet wasn't this himself, his childhood, his parents?

"He was, in one word, paranoid. And you could see it in his eyes. Eyes tell you so much about a person, you know that? You look into someone's eyes, and you can see their pains, their fears, their past." Draco paused again, as if conjuring the image of his father in his mind. "But not my father. Everything was hidden with my father. You could see something, alright, but you never knew exactly what. You could see coldness and ruthlessness and a lot of distrust and hatred, but you could never, ever tell if it was aimed at you. Mostly, you looked into his eyes and you saw your reflection, and not much else."

_I saw that hatred_, thought Ginny. _I saw that hatred, and it terrified me._

"My mother, though, he trusted her. Most people did, despite her reputation in the days before she died. She had this charm, this aura, which drew people in. Generally she was a closed person, kept away from the public eye and other people, but when she was around them – she was…bubbly. Kind. Stubborn in her own beliefs but a good person, had a good heart." A small semblance of a smile came to Draco's lips, and in that moment Ginny wondered if he even knew she was there, if he was even talking to _her_ anymore.

"The Black family," Draco said, "they have blue eyes. My mother was a Black, and she had those blue eyes. They weren't the kind of blue that turned grey at times, but a pale, iridescent blue that twinkled when she laughed and became dark when she cried. My sister had her eyes."

_Sister?_ Ginny thought, alarmed as she racked her brains to remember a female Malfoy. "You have a sister?" she asked aloud, and then inwardly winced. _He's a stranger_, she reminded herself. _Of course he could have a sister. You aren't supposed to know anything about him._

There was a hint of what could've been suspicion in his eyes when he looked at her, but it was gone as quickly as it'd appeared. "We called her Vie" Draco said, and even now there was no emotion in his voice. "In French, it means 'life'. I was five when she was born, and nine when she died. My father wanted a daughter, actually. Never really recovered from it."

_He wanted daughter to terrorize_, Ginny mentally added despite a small, involuntary glimmer of sympathy for the Malfoys. She'd seen the effects of death on her parents when Ron had died, and couldn't imagine what her own family would do if they lost a child so young.

"How did she die?" she asked, masking her curiosity by mimicking his dry, flat inflection.

There was a silence. "Carriage accident," Draco finally said, clearly not planning to elaborate.

"Oh."

"My father started seeing other women after that," He went on as if he really didn't care. "They both became different. She rarely went out before, but now she was confined to her rooms. Had tempermental mood swings, and I guess my father didn't want to be around her too much. She stayed faithful, though. I don't think she had it in her. And despite the other women, he'd always come back to her. Those eyes of hers, they drew him in, the way they drew everyone in. Even when they're empty."

Ginny was, as ever, silent.

He paused, and then glanced at her. "I have my father's eyes."

* * *

They dismounted a good four hours later, when the air had started to thin a bit and Ginny had seen just about all the landscape Malfoy Manor and the surrounding forests could offer. She had also come to realize that if someone was trapped in the Manor against their own will, there was literally no possible way for them to escape. 

Draco helped her down. He had not said much since his odd burst about his parents, at least not much beyond the mandatory grunt and acknowledgement of her presence. She had the good mind to conclude that he was not about to reveal anything else, either, and thus was content to keep her mouth shut and use the peace and quiet to mull over what she'd learned about him.

"Well," He said as one of the house elves led the unicorns away, "at least one of your many commoner flaws is now covered."

Somehow, his words were different than before, and somehow she didn't feel the need to lash when he called her common.

Draco nodded at her curtly, flung his black robe over one arm, and then began to saunter towards the mansion. The thought which had been nagging at her all day suddenly seemed unbearable, and as she stared blankly at his lean legs, she knew that she needed an answer. "Wait," Ginny called before she could stop herself, and jogged a little to catch up with him.

He pivoted gracefully, stopped and watched her near with expectance in his eyes.

"You never answered my question," she said breathlessly when she was at his side.

"Your question," he repeated, folding his arms across his chest.

"I still don't understand, Mal—my lord, why you've hired me," Ginny said. "You said it yourself, you don't need to pay women to have them. And you certainly don't need to pay a woman just for companionship. And even if you did, why in the world would you pick me? You've done all you can to be hostile and create animosity, and no doubt you think you're all high and mighty and so much better than a commoner. So answer me that, hmm? Why?"

The smirk he gave her then was so cold she felt a tremor of a chill run through her body. He said nothing at first, simply stared at her with the same unfathomable steel in his eyes as the sounds of nature and her own labored breathing grew louder to her own ears. He stared as she met his eyes with defiance and fury, stared as some sort of calculation or response formulated in that cryptic mind of his.

"You'll understand in time," he finally said, and this time a chill _did_ run through her, because beneath that ice and malevolence and threat in his voice there was a tint of glee, a tint of suggestion that he would enjoy whatever ill fate he planned to bestow upon her.

She shuddered, and Draco laughed. It was a most unpleasant sound.

"You should know," he said, leaning a little closer to her and lowering his voice, "that I'm a planner. Everything I do is calculated, every response you make can be predicted. Ever play Wizard's chess, Ginny?"

She nodded mutely, her mouth suddenly dry.

"You have your strategies," he continued, "You win little battles. Make little steps. But I, I have the advantage." He stepped towards her, looked down into brown pools of angered confusion, and grinned leeringly. "For I can see the entire board. I have the master plan, the end move, _I_ have the victory where it counts. You might not be able to see it now, no I'm _sure_ you can't see it right now, but—you will. In time. When it counts, when it's too late for you, when everything I've calculated falls into place."

Ginny swallowed audibly, feeling cold and angry and regretful she'd asked all at the same time, but even then she couldn't bring herself to pull away from him.

"Life is all just a game, Ginny," he said, and then strolled away.

End of Chapter 5


End file.
